Back to the Beginning
by CrystallineX
Summary: The Valar chose many companions to help them create Arda… save for Námo. The Judge of the Dead chose only one companion, who eventually pled for eternal rest. Too bad Námo had different plans. Eons later, Harry Potter woke up in a field of grass. "Sodding dreaming potions…"
1. Of Dream Potions and Expiration Dates

**Obligatory disclaimer:** Not mine. I'm just toying with could-have-beens. And forgive me, oh hardcore Tolkien fans, if I get things wrong. The Silmarillion is not quite clear on how who-did-whats, and when, in the beginning.

* * *

**Prologue**

* * *

"_And the Valar drew unto them many companions, some less, some well nigh as great as themselves, and they labored together in the ordering of the Earth and the curbing of its tumults."_

_– The Silmarillion_

* * *

That is, all of the Valar, save for Námo.

The Judge of the Dead chose but one companion.

Clothed in pale flesh, emerald green eyes, and hair as dark as a starless sky, this companion had appeared from seemingly nowhere. Of the Valar, only Námo and his spouse Vairë the Weaver knew of this being's origins.

Námo called this companion, or rather, follower, merely that: _satar_. Others of the Valar altered the title to '_Sataressë' _for semblance of an actual name, or_ 'Nurundil_,' meaning 'Death's Friend'.

After having been given free reign over souls by Ilúvatar himself, Námo worked in fashioning the souls of the Eldar and Atani, that is, Elves and Men, his _satar _by his side.

And after the First Children were awoken, so were their souls, and Námo's true work started. By this time, his companion was an almost constant presence.

Together, each one balanced the other out. Whereas Námo would pass judgment upon souls at Manwë's call, his companion would spread the souls that still had a chance at redemption and place them carefully back on Arda.

The precious spare time not spent harvesting and scattering souls, Námo's _satar_ spent learning from other Valar.

Nessa the Dancer was the first to call Námo's companion _'Sataressë'_. The Dancer saw the newly christened _Sataressë _as a friend and would confide things she would never confide in her own companions much less fellow Queens of the Valar, for she was the least of them. _Sataressë _listened patiently and sympathized; Nessa, for all she acted carefree with her deer, had many sorrows and hurts.

She taught _Sataressë _to run among the deer and a song that made one fleet of foot. Though never able to keep up with the Vala, _Sataressë _was nonetheless glad to have found a friend in Nessa, and given a label that remotely sounded like a name. Running among the deer and Nessa's own companions felt so free. And it made _Sataressë _able to finish duties all the more quickly.

When off duty and could not find Nessa, the _satar_ wandered to Yavanna, Giver of Fruits, to learn different properties of flora. From there, _Sataressë _coaxed an old, large tree to grant a single, small branch. After all, what was one small branch out of thousands? Yavanna, having seen Námo's _satar_ asking one of her creations – children – for what essentially qualified as a _limb_, disapproved and didn't speak to whom she had now dubbed _Nurundil_, and by extension, Námo, for a long time.

By then, the _satar _had taken the precious branch to Yavanna's husband, Aulë, Smith and Lord of Earth, to learn of how to fashion all things physical. Delighting in all things crafting, Aulë readily demonstrated how to create many things. After practicing on several fallen and dead branches between duties involving ferrying souls, Námo's companion finally began to carve the branch that had been taken _live__._

When Yavanna saw and felt the power of _Nurundil's_ end product, the knots in the branch carved and tapered into strength and *elegance she grudgingly acknowledged it to be a piece of work almost to rival her husband's.

Aulë's zeal for craft had apparently caught on; various items made from melodies learnt from the other Valar began to appear around the Halls of Mandos.

It was Vairë who took on her husband's _satar_ next, the craft of weaving; the result, however, was not a story as Vairë had expected, but cloth that shone like the stars and was liquid to the touch. When Vairë queried as to what the product was, the only reply was a mysterious smile and vanishing with a swish. Though Námo knew what it was, even _he_ could not see his _satar_ in the occasion the cloth was produced and worn. Half parts irritated because the cloth managed to hoodwink _him_ and amused at his wife's bewilderment, Námo informed Vairë of the item's properties that she may weave it into his _satar's_ story.

But all this was done across an indeterminable amount of time, for the _satar_ dutifully spent the most time in the Hall of Mandos, at Námo's side.

In brief moments of respite, Námo's companion would work on a stone discovered during the times spent with Aulë. It was transparent, yet black; nothing beautiful, and when Námo commented so, his companion gave a small smile.

"Beauty matters not. Not all that glitters is gold,_ Seron,_" was the simple reply, before the _satar _returned to depict something on the stone.

Being referred to as _'seron'_ briefly took Námo aback. Nobody had ever referred to Námo as a _friend_. He himself had called his companion '_satar' _for countless ages, "heartlessly never bothering" to give his companion a true name, as his sister had once told him. Irmo and Nienna called him 'Brother,' yes. But no one had called him 'friend'. Not once.

But Námo almost immediately recovered his composure and replied that the stone was still no *Silmaril, and nothing drawn on it would bring it remotely of comparison.

He was surprised for the second time that day when his _satar_ retorted, "Even your brother, the Lord of Dreams, could not make me dream of imitating something so dangerously beautiful_._"

_[*Silmaril: a jewel made by Fëanor, an elf. There are three. And they caused their creator and his sons, and elves in general much grief.]_

…

Námo Knew of everything that would be except the fate of those who lay in the freedom of Ilúvatar. And his _satar_ was no exception, for his companion had not returned to Ilúvatar's side after helping mould Arda.

Námo had Known that his companion would not choose to dwell in eternity with the other co-creators of Arda in Valinórë.

So Námo was unsurprised when his long-time companion came to him for rest.

"I have been here a long time, and I grow weary. I am no Ainu; long has it been since I gave up that identity. I have done my part in creating and protecting Arda." These were no complaints. Merely statements. "Now that Morgoth has been vanquished," Green eyes fixed themselves upon Námo's own eyes. "…Let me go."

Námo had to fight from closing his eyes in resignation.

"_Seron."_ The voice was gentle, but pleading.

Yes.

Námo had seen this coming. He really had.

Námo, known as Mandos, Chief Counselor to Manwë, Keeper of Souls, Judge of the Dead, should not have felt grief.

But Námo, as dispassionate as he was renown to be, treasured his companion on almost equal ground with his spouse; almost like his child.

But he Knew that this one would be born once again to be great. Despised and glorified in equal parts, life full of tragedy and danger. He Knew that his _satar_ would triumph, but it would be a hollow one.

A… Hallow one, if one had to word it specifically.

And Námo Knew that their paths would cross again.

That was the one thought that comforted Námo as he nodded, the shell of his companion fading and leaving only a glowing soul behind.

As Námo carefully cupped the soul in his hands, a tear slipped down his nose and landed on the soul.

"Forgive me, firstborn Istari of the Maiar."

Námo placed the soul among the souls of Atani, _Men_, to be reborn.

"Till we meet again, _Seron._"

* * *

**Chapter 1**

* * *

Of Dream Potions and Expiration Dates

* * *

Harry Potter stirred, feeling slightly uncomfortable. The sun was shining directly in his eyes; odd, since he and Ginny usually closed the curtains before going to bed… and since when had his bed felt… grassy?

When the last thought registered in his head, Harry jolted upright. Where was he?

Shielding his eyes (a part of his brain noted that he didn't have his glasses on) from the bright sun, Harry took inventory of his surroundings. Grass… grass… grass… and more grass.

Well. It didn't take much deduction to see that he was in a field of grass. A bloody damned big one too. He couldn't see the end of it.

Next, Harry looked down and examined himself and nearly jumped out of his skin.

It wasn't so much that he was as naked as the day he was born that shocked him.

It was that he… was a _she. _At least, that was what the two lumps of flesh on his chest told him, and after decades of marriage, Harry considered himself no stranger to female anatomy.

Sighing with no little exasperation, Harry flopped back down in the grass.

This had to be a dream. Either James or Albus had slipped their uncle George's dreaming potions into his soup and it was marvelously, or rather, _horrendously_ past the expiration date. That was the only explanation.

Why. Why. Why, why?

Sodding sons.

Sodding George. And Fred, when he was still alive and kicking. After all, he and George had both worked on the potions that made dreams customizable.

Wait.

The dreams were _customizable._

Harry perked up. Even if it's way past its expiration date, the potion must still retain _some_ of its properties, he mused.

And if this dreamscape consisted only of grass and stark nakedness, it was a very boring dream indeed. And he didn't _do _boring. He had been an auror for very nearly four decades, and even if he were on his last legs before retirement, he wouldn't stand for even his _dreams _to be boring.

He leapt to his feet, mildly surprised that he felt more nimble than he had for decades. Then he remembered it was a _dream._

He wasn't too embarrassed that he was bare-arse naked; after all, this wasn't the first time he'd woken up unclothed, with perfect vision, alone. He'd experienced it once before in the almost-afterlife with Dumbledore. And the _alone _part helped to assuage some of his embarrassment. After all, when he woke up, he could always hex his sons six ways to Sunday…

Though it was _slightly_ more worrying that he was a _woman_ in this dream…

Maybe he was having the midlife crisis he'd never had…? A… three-quarter-life crisis?

Shoving a somewhat _[read:particularly]_ disturbing thought from his mind, Harry looked around once more, chose a random direction and started walking.

Then he thought, to hell with walking; this was his dream: he'd damn well run if he wanted to. He'd never get tired anyway; it was a dream. Nothing like the nightmarish visions back when he'd been in his teens, when the connection with Voldemort had still existed. This was a potion-induced dream! Even with degenerate properties, it had to be still somewhat customizable.

Surprisingly, Harry found running great fun (that is, after getting used to the rather uncomfortable wobbly and bouncy sensation on his chest, of course. He was extremely grateful that he wasn't a woman in real life). He had never found the act of running very enjoyable; probably came from years of using it to run _away_ from something or someone. But running, now, felt freeing. With this speed, it was actually somewhat similar to riding a broomstick. Except grounded.

Harry heard the trees before he saw them. With a lurch, Harry was reminded of the whispering voices behind the Veil in the Department of Mysteries. Pushing decades-old memories aside, Harry stopped at the edge of the forest. The trees were huge; easily taller than the trees of the Forbidden Forest, and were amass with whispers. He tried to discern what they were saying, but they seemed _just_ out of reach of his understanding. They reminded him of something that seemed… before…

Shaking his head and muttering about consequences of pranking with expired potions under his breath, Harry walked into the forest.

Sure, these trees dwarfed the trees of the Forbidden Forest… but hey, this was a dream, what harm could he do by exploring? And he'd never gotten to try out this particular Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes product. Now was his chance, even if it turned out to be ages past the expiration date, judging by how the dream was turning out to be.

Harry looked at his feminine hands. Clenching and unclenching them, he hedged a look at a nearby tree. His eyes (were all eyes with 20/20 vision this keen?) immediately picked out hand and footholds. After a moment, Harry shrugged. Why not?

With a running start, Harry practically flew up the tree. At least, that's what it felt like to him.

Crouching on a branch that was some forty meters high, for the first time in this dream, Harry grinned. So maybe he wouldn't hex his sons to kingdom come.

Shifting his footing on the branch, Harry eyed an adjacent tree.

Could he?

Feeling reckless for the first time in decades (could all dream potions make you feel and think more youthfully? He could get used to this) Harry leapt from the branch to the slightly higher branch; he felt a swooping feeling in his stomach when he almost thought he was falling, but his fingertips latched onto the branch like vices until he was able to swing and acquire a strong grip on the branch with his other arm. Spotting another tree, Harry tried again, this time aiming for a branch of about the same level. It was like the jungle gym he'd sneaked off to, to avoid Dudley and his gang when he was a kid. But better.

He swung again, and again, and again. Harry whooped, he hadn't had this much fun since he'd taught his grandkids how to ride brooms!

Feeling invincible (this _was_ a dream, after all) Harry swung towards a tree that he'd misjudged the distance of. His fingernails scraped against the bark…

…and he tumbled down through some fifty meters of leaves, canopies, and thin branches, his fall finally broken by a particularly large branch.

Grimacing, Harry slowly sat up, hand on his back, the place he'd painfully come into contact with the tree branch that had broken his fall.

"Urgh… Bloody hell, George, dreams aren't supposed to hurt…" Harry gasped, with a voice that sounded more like his daughter's than he cared to admit.

Decades of auror instincts kicking in, Harry took inventory of all his injuries; scrapes, bruises-to-be, splinters, and gouges from some vindictively sharp branches. If this were reality, Harry knew he would not only have had broken ribs, but a broken spine as well. Harry very nearly growled.

After _that_ mishap, he really wanted his wand. He felt safer with it. After decades with it, it was safe to say it was like another limb.

The dream-adrenaline had worn out, and Harry was grumpy again. He hurt all over, and he felt naked. Oh wait, he _was_ naked. And he was a female.

"Sodding dream potions…"

If only he could wake up.

"Bother George… Bother James and Albus. When I wake up from this dream they'll definitely regret – " he was interrupted from his tirade by a clicking sound behind him. He immediately turned around and found himself face to pincer with an acromantula.

Harry's eyes widened.

Now he **really** needed a wand. Otherwise, this would quickly turn into a nightmare.

* * *

A/N: I've been reading Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter crossovers. And… thought I'd write one of my own.

With Harry as a female.

You might have noticed that I never referred to the _satar _with a gender specific-pronoun.

It's also safe to say that Harry won't be paired up with anybody anytime soon. S/he's mentally an eighty-five-year-old grandpa. LOL WHUT HAVE I DONE.

Reviews and suggestions will be appreciated! And well, flame away, especially to tell me if Harry gets too Mary-Sue-ish. I'd hate to become exactly what I despise.

**EDIT: For those of you who dislike the fact that there is no Fem!Harry warning or any indication that this fic is genderbender, I intend to add it to the summary after the story is complete.**


	2. Of Almost Acromantula

**Perfunctory Disclaimer:** JKRowling's and JRRTolkien's. And sorry for botching the Sindarin. It won't last long. I know how to italicize.

* * *

**Back to the Beginning**

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Of Almost Acromantula

* * *

It was lucky that Harry was young again in this thrice-damned dream… featuring bloody acromantula!

For the first seventeen years of his life, Harry had always been the underdog. Perpetually at a disadvantage: against a two-faced teacher (literally), a basilisk, a tournament against wizarding students far more experienced than he, a magical government set on vilifying him, numerous horcruxes, and finally the powerful dark wizard that everyone feared.

Nonetheless, he had overcome the odds every time.

After defeating Voldemort for good, Harry had thought his underdog days were over. And they were, for a good number of decades after becoming an auror. And he was nearing his retirement as Head Auror, a judgment made due to… well, boredom, mostly. He was _bored_ of being an auror now.

Just the other day, he had met up with Ron and reminisced about their school days.

But nevermind seventeen, he was well past his _seventies_, for pity's sake! Had he been subconsciously craving the suicidal adventures of his early years that much, for him to be facing down a huge spider, alone, naked, female, and _wandless!?_

Barely avoiding being skewered by pincers, Harry vaguely thought he rather didn't want to know what more of his deep, dark, secret fantasies _[read: madness]_ this dream would unearth.

Instead, Harry mentally listed spells that he could use, _had he been in possession of a wand, _that is, as he leapt from tree to tree.

_Incendio_ would fry the spider, but that would fry the forest as well…

And fiendfyre exponentially so…

_Stupefy_? But that wouldn't off the spider for good…

Conjure something to squash the spider… but… Harry remembered, as he slid down the bark of a tree and jumped to another branch – that they were still quite far off the ground…

_Engorgio_ a stone to squash – wait, he'd already been over that… The ground was still some tens of meters away…

Harry automatically dismissed _Avada Kedavra_. He hadn't ever used that unforgivable in real life, and it would leave a very bad taste in his mouth after he woke if he so much considered using it in a dream.

Shrink it into something stompable? Did such spells work on magical creatures?

_Reducto_ would work, yes… He was nearing the ground now…

_Diffindo _would sever the legs of the monsters right off and leave them rolling around… But he'd have to do it several times… and it wouldn't kill it either…

As Harry's feet finally touched the ground once more, he thought rather desperately that he could transfigure something into a good ol' sword and finish it off like when he'd defeated the basilisk…

Suddenly, Harry felt wood in his right hand. Not from the forest trees, no. _Polished _wood.

Of a wand.

And Harry immediately performed the last idea that had occurred to him: catching a stray leaf in his free hand and transfiguring it into a sword. He turned around and maneuvered himself under the somewhat softer underbelly of the spider and thrust the sword into it.

The acromantula thudded onto its spindly knees, impaling itself further onto the transfigured sword, as well as painfully crushing Harry under its belly before it gave a piteous squeal and died.

By now, Harry was naked, covered in oozing black spider-blood, and trapped.

The only upside to this was that he had somehow acquired a wand, and looking to his left hand, Harry acknowledged the sword as well.

Not that it made this dream any less nightmarish, covered in acromantula guts as he was.

When he lifted his wand to levitate the spider off of him, Harry stopped. During all the fighting and adrenaline, he hadn't noticed the texture of the polish, but _this was not his holly-phoenix feather wand._

No.

Even when it had mysteriously reappeared in his hand one day when he'd dropped his own wand during a physically grueling battle, he hadn't used _this_ wand. He'd dove for his _own_ wand instead, and used that to stun the particularly active rogue wizard. He'd used this wand only once, and that had been to restore his holly-phoenix feather wand.

After the incident, Harry had asked Dumbledore's portrait about it, but the portrait had sighed and merely said, "It is as I feared," and wouldn't utter a single word more on the subject. Trust even Dumbledore's portrait to be cryptic.

But Harry was older and wiser than he'd been in his school years, and had an inkling as to what was going on.

His suspicions furthered when after a particularly stressful press conference for catching a notorious criminal, he simply wanted to vanish from the world; escape all the attention and fame… and his invisibility cloak had appeared in his hands. Though that was a rather convenient thing, Harry was leery of what meanings it entailed.

After those two incidents, he was careful to avoid anything further than wistful thoughts toward the dead. He had dropped the Resurrection Stone in the Forbidden Forest. And it would stay there. The last thing he needed was for the stone's constant temptation to hound him.

…But this was a dream. Couldn't he spare to be Master of Death in a dream, at least? After all, the appearance of the Elder Wand seemed to indicate that he desired not only the title, but the power as well.

…But then that also suggested that Harry had finally gone off the deep end and wanted to become a woman.

…And that he felt a desperate need to off an acromantula in the most gruesome manner.

Discounting the dead acromantula, Harry didn't know what was worse about this dream-that-started-out-less-than-customizable: being female, or being Master of Death.

Well, as long as this dream didn't stretch to have Death come aseeking…

With a sigh of long-suffering, Harry raised the Elder Wand and levitated the spider to free himself.

After a moment of thought, Harry pulled out the sword as well, wincing at the squelching sound it made as it exited the spider's body.

He was a seasoned auror of over four decades and he wasn't remotely squeamish, but Harry found it rather unnerving when fellow aurors didn't so much as bat an eye at the scenes they were sent to; they were desensitized to most anything. But then again, Harry himself could also handle most things just fine, maggots, a puddle of blood, blood-sucking leeches… he'd seen worse back in his school days.

But he still found some situations absolutely disgusting… and being bathed in acromantula guts was one of them.

Cleaning the sword with a silent _tergeo_, Harry kept the sword on hand, just in case.

And just as he was about to conjure some clothes, 'just in case' came.

Harry inevitably found himself surrounded by what seemed like a colony of acromantula, he resigned himself to fighting it out. He figured apparating (though it would be quite a lot easier) was a coward's way out, and he could possibly wake up from this nightmare if he was 'killed' by one of the beasts. Besides, who was he to deny the adrenaline pumping through his veins once more? As Head Auror in relatively peaceful times, he had been stuck doing paperwork for the lion's share of the past two decades and hadn't had a good fight in ages.

Getting creative, Harry conjured iron cages and slammed them down over the acromantula that were on the ground. It was unfortunate that it still left over half of the acromantula in the foliage above him, pincers clicking menacingly. And the encaged ones were slowly forcing their way out. Harry watched for a moment, open-mouthed before one nearly caught him off guard and snapped his attention back to the battle. What would he have to conjure to keep them imprisoned, titanium?

But armed with the Elder Wand, fight won over flight instincts and Harry gripped his sword tightly in his left hand. It was clumsier than wielding it with his right arm, for sure, but this was a dream; if he could see without his glasses and perform superhuman feats, he could do most things, right?

After messily stabbing three spiders, the sword was pulled out of his hand with webbing. Okay, maybe he should have switched hands, but too late.

With spiders coming in from all directions, Harry was tempted to use fiendfyre, but he'd never been able to control it all that well… maybe he'd be able to in a dream? But this dream had proven him wrong time and again, and there was the whispering forest to consider as well…

Why did he have to take things so seriously!? Why did the whispering trees seem so important!?

He injured several spiders with some well-aimed sectumsempras and diffindos, and was able to stun one before he was almost caught from behind by another. Swearing violently as he cast the severing charm to get the webbing off him, Harry blasted the spider away with a banishing spell, and then reducing one to pieces with a reducto over his shoulder. He shrank several more to normal sized spiders that he stomped on, but the colony seemed endless, and angry.

Finally, Harry had had enough. There were only so many physically sticky attacks a bloke-turned-bird in a dream could handle. Wizards were more long-range fighters, but this was a viscous to the point of being almost gluey, close-range, fight.

"Accio sword!" He switched the elder wand to his left hand and caught the sword with his right and started blindly slashing and stabbing at any spider that came too close. He used it to hack away any webbing that caught him or his limbs as well.

But after fighting close to fifty spiders or so, Harry began to tire; his adrenaline rush had long since run out. Were these even acromantula? Those creatures knew how to cut their losses and just quit. But these creatures were relentless.

Figuring if he died in the dream, he would finally wake up from this nightmare and be able to dish out the nasty hexes his sons had coming to them, Harry dropped his sword and the Elder wand and flopped on the ground, letting the spiders advance, pincers clicking. He closed his eyes…

…but he never felt their pincers. Instead, he heard a swooshing sound and something distinctly hitting something. He opened his eyes. The not-quite-acromantula closest to him had an arrow sprouting from an eye. Several more arrows rained down, all with deadly accuracy. The other spiders clicked angrily and seemed to forget Harry as they fled.

A person that Harry could only describe as a pretty boy with somewhat pointy ears, complete with the long platinum blonde hair, hovered over him, looking concerned. Taking off the top layer of his medieval styled clothes and disentangling it from his bow, the boy held it out to Harry, asking something in a strange, yet beautiful language.

"Man harthannil nad carrol na er neledha vi eryn?"

Even if it did sound rather demanding.

It took a good few moments for Harry's brain to process that the boy had asked something equivalent to, "What did you hope to accomplish by venturing alone into a forest?" Harry sat up and took the tunic, realizing the unspoken question tacked on at the back, 'unclad as you are?'

Before realizing what he was saying, Harry's mouth formed the words, "Lá istan quet' i lam nîn…" As the meaning caught up with him, Harry promptly shut his mouth, feeling extremely stupid. He had just said 'I don't speak your language.' In said language. This was like Parseltongue all over again. The boy looked at Harry like he thought he was a bit mad.

"…Goheno…?" Harry tested out the apology on his tongue. It was strange, consciously speaking a different language that you definitely didn't know in real life. _"I am a bit of a… mess, you see." _

And as if he needed reminding, the clean tunic brushed against Harry's skin; Harry grimaced as strings of spider blood clung to it. He looked at the boy for confirmation, and when he nodded, Harry eagerly jammed it on. Though he enjoyed his physical youth in the dream, his other… physical properties not so much. For what seemed like the umpteenth time, Harry wondered how the bloody hell could he wake up from this dream.

_"Follow me. You are injured."_

The words were so abrupt and commanding that Harry briefly hesitated; he wasn't used to taking orders from someone significantly younger than him. But the guy had saved him and given him some amount of modesty. He had little reason to be suspicious. And after all that action, he wouldn't mind a little safety. A bit of rest. Or being clean.

_"May I pick up my weapon?" _Harry asked. He didn't really need it, as he could easily transfigure something else, but he figured asking wouldn't do any harm. The boy nodded. Harry surreptitiously picked up the Elder Wand along with the sword, hoping the boy wouldn't notice, before stifling a snort of incredulous laughter. Was he being sneaky, even in a dream? This dream potion business was hard work. Though it did remind him of way back in his school days.

Leading the way, the boy – or rather, young man, now that Harry had a clearer perspective of just how tall he was (Ron had been an outlier) – nimbly leapt up a tree. And though banged up, Harry be damned if he was to be outdone in his own dream, so he quickly followed suit. And it became a bit of a competition; the youth would use harder and harder maneuvers and Harry would copy every one of them.

Finally, the bloke cheated (at least, that's how Harry saw it) and used his different (male) build to his advantage to jump from one tree vine and use another tree trunk to land on a tree that had to be at least forty meters away.

Smirking a bit, the _kid_ called to Harry, _"There are many different ways to reach this tree, and you are wounded. Do not feel the need to take the same path as I."_

Okay, that settled it. Harry knew he wasn't being very mature considering how his mental age was in its mid eighties, but he would imitate that move if it were the last thing he did.

Adjusting his hold on his sword, Harry climbed onto the vine and swung experimentally a few times. The young man's eyes widened and Harry fancied he sounded a bit nervous. _"Wait, your wounds – "_

'Should have thought of that before you practically challenged me head on, mate...' Harry thought before he took in a deep breath.

_"Wait!" _There was real fear in the young man's voice now but it was too late, as Harry had already launched off the tree trunk and let go of the vine at the farthest swing possible. This was different from all the stunts Harry had done before; Harry felt a moment of breathlessness while he felt almost weightless. Then he regained his senses and his right foot propelled off another tree and finally, his hand shot out to catch onto the same branch the young man stood on.

It was centimeters too far. His reach just wasn't long enough, and Harry cursed his stubbornness. It was always his Gryffindor pride that got him in trouble.

At the last second he spotted a branch below that he could land on with a crouch. He could settle for that. The young man's shoulders, slightly tensed with worry, loosened with relief.

Harry smirked up at him. _"What was that you wanted me to wait for?"_

The blond had a hint of a smile when he retorted, _"Only for me to climb down to the branch you landed on."_

Harry grumbled to himself under his breath about stupid dreams. But it seemed the blond had unnaturally keen hearing and called him out on it. _"Dream? Mayhap 'twas a vision? Are you in possession of powers like Lady Galadriel?"_

Harry opened his mouth to ask who this Galadriel was, but the manner with which the young man spoke of her made it sound like a household name. Harry had a feeling that it would be akin to asking who Queen Elizabeth (no matter which) was. So he simply shook his head and kept his mouth shut. For a while, Harry's guide silently led them down to the ground. Alas, peaceful silence was too good last.

_"You never answered my first question about what you were doing alone in a forest."_

Panicking (thus far, the dream was so realistic that he wouldn't be surprised if he were imprisoned in an asylum were he to tell the truth), Harry redirected the question.

_"And I have yet to know the identity of my guide."_

Abruptly, Harry's guide suddenly straightened, turned to face him directly, and nodded elegantly, hand over heart. "Nányë Legolas."

Again, Harry spoke before he knew what he going to say. _"Of the House of the Tree? Were you not the scout of Galdor? When did you return from Tol Eressëa?"_

As the words left his mouth, Harry was internally groaning; what was he saying? What was this weird backstory his dream was creating? Was this dream even remotely customizable anymore, if he couldn't even control what he was saying in which language?

His rising ire toward whichever of his sons that had pranked him with this expired dream potion took a sharp nose dive when Harry caught the somewhat affronted look on this Legolas' face.

The 'Ron Syndrome,' as he and Hermione had taken to calling it, had finally caught on over the decades at what seemed like the most inopportune moment… Apparently he had just opened his mouth, only to insert his foot. But he didn't even understand what he'd said! House of tree? Was that some clan like the 'Most Ancient and Noble House of Black' or something? Or was it simply what it sounded like, a treehouse? And who or what was Galdor? And the Tol -what- see?

But judging from the blond's reaction, it was safe to assume that he wasn't the same Legolas as the one in the ridiculous backstory his subconscious had provided him with. _This_ Legolas, who had seemed to have cooled down and taken things in stride, was saying amusedly, _"I know not where you hail from, Stranger, but it is fortunate that you did not mistake me for a Noldor in front of an audience. The rest of my Silvan kind are not so forgiving. And had you confused me for a Noldor before my father the King, consequences would have been less than pleasant." _They resumed walking.

Harry organized his thoughts as he picked his way through huge ferns.

He'd just met a prince. Who was *Silvan. Whatever they were. And Silvans, had something against *Noldors. Whatever they were.

_[*Silvan Elves: mostly the wood elf kindred in Mirkwood and Lothlorien__]  
__[*Noldor Elves: the elves that started a mess after the silmarils were stolen. Read The Silmarillion for more details]  
[**A/N:** Harry is utterly unaware of these things. He doesn't even know that Legolas is an elf.]_

Harry knew he was oversimplifying, but he genuinely thought that was the only way he could keep track of things. He didn't even know what things his dream-self knew.

But that was normal for a dream, right?

_"I have introduced myself. It would be courteous for you to do the same."_

Interrupted from his thoughts, Harry flushed at the slight admonishment. It wasn't everyday someone younger than you gave you a lesson on manners. Pretending to concentrate on where he was walking, Harry racked his brain for a proper sounding name. 'Harry' would hardly do for a girl. And he didn't want to pervert his mother's and daughter's name by choosing theirs. And he _really_ didn't want to feminize his name as 'Harriet'. But his no-longer-controllable dream-self would save the moment, it seemed, as he answered easily, _"I am known by many names…"_ true enough… _"But you may call me Seron." _Legolas gave him a strange look, though neither Harry nor his dream-self had an inkling as to why. It only meant 'friend'. Maybe because they weren't friends yet? _"Or…"_ Harry had to pause and think when his dream-self retreated. Big fat help that it was, abandoning him in a time of need. Not _Indil_, it meant Lily. But another flower might work. Petunia was definitely out… Rose was his niece's name… Tulip was… ugh. Wasn't there any other flower!? Snowdrop! Okay. Snowdrop sounded good. _"Niphredil… if you prefer."_

Legolas hesitated a fraction before speaking, _"…Niphredil, a flower that braves the winter… and heralds spring." _He seemed to judge Harry's character as he gazed into Harry's eyes. _"__It suits you."_

Harry looked down at his griminess, now covered mostly by the tunic, but he felt he had to disagree with Legolas' last statement. Snowdrops were _white. _He had never felt less snowdrop-py in his life.

Then again, he had never _had_ to compare himself with flowers before. Sodding dream.

_"You speak in a dialect I have never heard before." _Legolas easily ran along a long log, perfectly balanced, and Harry followed. _"Would you prefer to answer my first question as to what you were doing alone in our woods by the King's interrogation, or would you answer me now and have me vouch for you?"_

Internally, Harry swore to cook his own food and keep both eyes on it from stove to table for the rest of his life; this dream was so stressful. Externally, he spoke, _"I cannot bear to tell this tale twice, and much of it I do not remember. I will speak with your father, Prince Legolas." _Legolas didn't look too thrilled, but he nodded.

Brilliant, he'd bought some extra time to think up a backstory. Now if only Legolas would go at a slower pace…

But all too soon, it seemed Harry had arrived in a large groove of trees, with a center ideal for stargazing, had it been the right time of day. And Harry still had no plausible tale. What could he say? 'Hi, My name's actually Harry. I'm a eighty-five-year old-man! And you guys are all figments of my imagination, out of a dream resulting from a prank from my sons!' Harry withheld a shudder as he imagined being dragged off to an asylum. In his own dream, no less. He hoped his dream-self would provide a fitting story.

Swiftly, Legolas led Harry over weaving bridges of stone and stairs, ending at a circle guarded by what he supposed were Silvans, all of whom had ears that tapered to points. Sitting in a throne in the center was a figure – it didn't take much to deduce he was the king – in shadow. Harry squinted, but even his dream-enhanced eyes could not see the figure's face. Legolas walked calmly past the guards, but when Harry made to follow Legolas into the circle, the guards acted immediately; two swords blocked his way.

And Harry belatedly knew why. Making the Elder Wand invisible, he surrendered his sword. Then, and only then, did the guards withdraw their swords, one confiscating Harry's as well.

By the time Harry had gotten closer to the throne (but maintaining a respectable distance from it), Legolas had knelt and was addressing the still shadowed figure. _"Father, I found this young lady, Niphredil, wounded and battling many spiders alone in the woods, and came to her aid. She seemed in need of healing, so I guided her back here."_

Harry quashed the part him itching to inform Legolas that he was actually a man almost in his nineties.

A voice very much reminiscent of the late Lucius Malfoy's came from the shadow. _"And I would have several questions of you, Legolas: how came you across this… Niphredil… in the first place?" _

Harry promptly decided not to like this king.

But Legolas did not so much as bat an eyelash and merely stood from his kneeling position. Harry had to hand it to him, as the question strongly suggested that Legolas had done – or been doing – something he shouldn't have. Had it been Ron or Neville being addressed by _their_ respective guardians at Legolas' age, they both would have flinched and started edging away. Or in Ron's case, ran for his life. Neighbors had sniggered at that bugger Howler for _months_, Ron had complained, after a visit home had gone somewhat awry.

Legolas, however, was more steadfast. _"We can discuss this later, Father. Right now Niphredil is in need of medical aid."_

_"Actually, these are just scratches." _Harry hastily said. It didn't seem like these two had the best father-son relationship, and Merlin knew that he didn't want to be a reason for added strain. He also didn't want to be further indebted to the prince who had essentially saved his life. Even though it was only a dream.

Turning to him rather incredulously, Legolas pointedly looked at the drying spider blood and what it seemed he suspected were wounds beneath it.

At that look, Harry sheepishly added, _"Though a bath would not go unappreciated." _Remembering Legolas' tunic, Harry tacked on, _"Nor would a set of clothes."_

Not that he really needed it, Harry thought as he twirled his invisible wand with his fingers. With it, Harry could very well conjure up clothes for himself, but he didn't think it would be very prudent to perform magic at the moment. Not prudent at all.

And he couldn't see it, but the king's manner toward the supposed 'Niphredil' seemed to be very dismissive. Like he only thought of 'her' as a shadow, a bother. This further cemented Harry's bad impression of the king as not only an oppressive father, but also a chauvinist. Being friends with Hermione and married to Ginny had taught Harry not to underestimate women, and him physically being one himself at the moment… well, whatever.

Right now, Harry felt a burning urge to get the king's ire off of Legolas and where it really belonged. The trespasser. Him.

Maybe his dream self would help in this situation. It seemed a lot more eloquent, after all. So Harry boldly stepped forward and let his dream-self take control. _"My King. I cannot see your face." _

Okay. Maybe that hadn't been such a good idea after all.

His dream-self was beginning to earn a track record for not being very helpful.

* * *

A/N: Wow, thank you for all the follows and favorites!

But upon reading the reviews, I felt torn whether to spoil that this story features **fem!harry** in the summary or not.

One reader mentioned it had been a waste of time since I hadn't, but honestly, how long does it take to read a measly 2,000 words to discover this fic is a fem!Harry? Now, if I'd posted just the prologue as the first chapter, and _then _slapped the readers in the face to reveal that this was a fem!Harry in the next update, _then_ I deserved that review.

O, reviewer who thought reading the first chapter was a waste of time, (whom I doubt is reading this) this is a _fanfiction _site. And if you so choose to linger in these hazardous waters among the 2,000+word sharks, you either need to seriously increase the speed of your reading or change what you consider a "waste of time".

**However. **I **do** realize the importance of warnings, since I honestly don't prefer slash fics.

But BttB doesn't even take 2,000 words into the first chapter to figure out that Harry's going to be a girl in this fic! Must I compromise the first plot twist for readers' convenience?

Now, opine away, I beg you.


	3. Of Legolas and Organizing Thoughts

**Necessary disclaimer:** HP and Tolkienverse do not belong to me. I could only hope to beget such big franchises. And forgive me if I botch details. The latest Tolkien franchise related thing I watched was the movie Desolation of Smaug.

* * *

**Back to the Beginning**

* * *

**Legolas**

The past day

* * *

After the stunt almost sixty years back with the dwarves, his father the king had expressly forbid Legolas to hunt alone, much less go on patrol duty. Basically under house arrest and feeling restless, the Elven Prince had secretly gone out to hunt for spiders alone again.

It was not like he thought he would get caught, as this certainly was not his first 'excursion'.

As usual, he had hung out high among the trees, a fair distance away from the usual patrol, keeping his ears open for any clicking or scuttling. He did not have to go far, as he heard practically a stampede of them.

There was a colony of the beasts, and they numbered so many even _he_ had hesitated to attack. But there were something he recognized as iron bar prisons that lay deformed by what he supposed were the spiders that seemed to have broken out from within. The question was, how had they gotten inside? How had they been trapped?

They were fighting against something – someone – already; who could be so reckless as to enter the forest renown as the Mirkwood, the Forest of Great Fear?

There was strange phenomena going on; some spiders' legs were detaching themselves from their bodies in a most violent manner; some bled from wounds they had not received physically; some turned to ash, others just shrank and that was when he saw her: a maiden, with long and thick dark hair, _bare _but for the mingled blood of both hers and the spiders_,_ wielding a sword. It was not so much the clumsily wielded sword that interested him; it was the strangely formed stick in her left hand, that seemed to be the source of all the strange happenings. As he drew nearer branch by branch, she suddenly threw down her weapons and just lay down for the spiders to devour her.

Not on his watch.

Drawing and notching an arrow, Legolas loosed arrow after arrow after arrow, some simultaneously.

The spiders had learnt to be wary of arrows that rained from above, or below… arrows in general, because it normally meant that the elven patrol had come out to give them a warm welcome of death.

So they fled, leaving the maiden bewildered and looking for the source of the arrows. Legolas briefly examined her body, in search for any wounds incurred by the spiders. There were a few, but she did not seem to have been, by some miracle, injected with the poison that paralyzed the victim. She could not be human, he idly noted, as she had no hair save for the dark locks on her head. Examining her face, he noted that she was also too fair to be of mankind. She would be considered fair even amongst elves. But there was nothing ageless about her that came to mark elves after a thousand years. In fact, she seemed much younger than he. So she was a young elf. His father would be furious that he was not informed of the birth of an elf in the last thousand years had not reached the ears of Mirkwood. Then again, as times were…

When eyes as green as the leaves met his own, Legolas barely managed to mask his shock with concern. Was there really such a color of eyes among any being?

Legolas started fumbling with his tunic, first forgetting to take off the quiver on his back, then his bow, thus having to untangle both. Silently, he cursed; he hadn't been this clumsy since his early elfling days! Finally separating his tunic from his bow, he held out his tunic, careful to keep his eyes on her face.

"What did you hope to accomplish by venturing alone into a forest?" He questioned. A bit too harshly, as she seemed rather taken aback by his words.

"I don't speak your language." The fight seemed to have addled with her head, as she had said this quite fluently, though with an accent he'd never heard. Then, as if realizing what she had just said, she looked embarrassed and apologized. "Sorry… I am a bit of a… mess, you see."

She then looked to him for permission to put on his tunic.

What did she think he'd given it to her for, to eat?

After she had pulled on the tunic, he commanded, "Follow me. You are injured."

Legolas could see the hesitation in her eyes, before it firmed into determination. "May I pick up my weapon?" she asked and Legolas nodded. Though she was clad only in his tunic and wounded and only able to wield the weapon like an amateur at best, he could hardly fight well if he had to constantly worry about her. The sword would give her some amount of protection. Besides, he was curious as to whether the elegantly carved stick was truly the source of her power, and whether or not she would retrieve it.

He watched her out of his peripheral vision, and surely enough, she surreptitiously picked it up. He imagined she thought she had been sneaky as she managed to swoop down and pick both the sword and the stick in one fell motion. He had to acknowledge her; had it been any other elf than he, in all probability, she would have succeeded in picking it up unnoticed.

Leading the way back to the Mirkwood palace, Legolas also had admit that she was fleet of foot. Almost on par with male elves. Her movements causing him to forget her wounds he gradually performed harder and harder maneuvers for her to copy, just to see how nimble she was. But then he accidentally made one too hard.

From his tree, Legolas called – sincerely, "There are many different ways to reach this tree, and you are wounded. Do not feel the need to take the same path as I." Well, he may have added a _bit_ of a taunt to his tone, as she had been able to replicate his movements with an exactness, and he knew she could not do this one.

As she climbed onto the very same vine he had, Legolas' amusement faded. Surely she wouldn't be foolish enough to try and copy his movements. It was impossible for a female. And having no sheath for that sword (not to mention the small branch, which he'd kept an eye on) would further hinder her. Though he had _said_ that she was wounded, her dexterity and reflexes _had_ made him forget that her injuries were very real.

"Wait, your wounds – " Legolas' eyes widened as he realized he'd lost any and all sense of maturity and managed to make it sound like he was _goading_ her into copying him. "Wait!" But it was too late as she had already made a magnificent leap from the vine to the tree he'd changed his trajectory on, and was now headed towards the branch he was standing on.

His heart was in his mouth when she fell just short, but landed on the branch beneath him. She turned to look up at him, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

"What was that you wanted me to wait for?"

Legolas was caught between wanting to strangle her and laugh in relief. "Only for me to climb down to the branch you are standing on."

As she pouted at his response, Legolas felt his edges of his lips tug up in amusement before he heard her say something about, "stupid bloody dreams". Alarmed that anyone, much less an elf, would have anything like 'dreams of blood' he asked sharply, "Dream? Mayhap 'twas a vision? Are you in possession of powers like Lady Galadriel?" 'As well as the powers you wield with that branch?' Legolas was tempted to add.

Perhaps that was why she was here? Having mistaken the woods of Mirkwood for Lothlórien, where she would be apprenticed to Lady Galadriel? He knew it was unlikely, but this elf seemed to be particularly foolhardy and reckless, so it was a possibility.

She opened her mouth and Legolas half-expected her to confess about her mysterious powers, but in the end she simply shook her head. Somewhat disappointed, Legolas led her through the forest in silence for the next few leagues.

It was most unlike him, but Legolas' curiosity eventually got the better of him and he attempted to get her to confess to him of her powers once more. "You never answered my first question about what you were doing alone in a forest."

"And I have yet to know the identity of my guide." But this was a sly fox. She had turned the question back on him.

So he straightened, put a hand over his heart and curved his neck as close to a bow as a prince was allowed to anyone but a king. "I am Legolas."

And to his surprise, the female elf was suddenly spilling with questions. Not of the _prince_ Legolas… but…

"Of the House of the Tree?"  
What did a long lost House of Gondolin have to do with him?

"Were you not the scout of Galdor?"  
A _Silvan __prince_, mistaken for a _scout_ of a _Noldorin _elf?

"When did you return from Tol Eressëa?"  
He had never even entertained thoughts of setting foot on a boat, much less set sail to Valinor!

She had clearly mistook him for an Noldorin elf of the same name, but of _completely_ different identity. And, she had clearly realized this by his face expression. He felt his irritation melt and give way to amusement at her face, frozen somewhere in between confusion and embarrassed realization.

"I know not where you hail from, Stranger, but it is fortunate that you did not mistake me for a Noldor in front of an audience. The rest of my Silvan kind are not so forgiving." In fact, a fair number of them still held a grudge for some elves directly descended from Noldorin elves that played a more… prominent role in elven history wrought with strife. "And had you confused me for a Noldor before my father the King, consequences would have been less than pleasant."

After indirectly revealing he was a prince, Legolas snuck a look at the as-of-yet-unnamed maiden. But her face was blank, and unable to tell what she was thinking, he resumed leading the way back to the palace of Mirkwood.

"I have introduced myself. It would be courteous for you to do the same." He looked back, and was satisfied to see a slight flush on her face as he thought, 'Yes. You have forgotten your manners, Young Stranger.'

As she made a great show of picking her way through the admittedly various plants of Mirkwood, Legolas waited for her answer. But as he watched on, the young elf seemed to transform into someone of far more experience and age. "I go by many names. But you may call me Seron."

The word 'friend' with the strong implication of 'lover' caught Legolas completely off guard and he stared at her, startled.

Seeming to notice how off kilter Legolas was, the young elf promptly returned and seemed to be conflicted. "Or…" there was a long pause, as if she were trying to remember her own name. Or think of a name. "Niphredil, if you prefer."

Yes, Legolas did prefer Niphredil. By leagues.

But for now, Legolas was judging the authenticity of what he strongly suspected was an alias. "…Niphredil, a flower that braves the winter… and heralds spring." His eyes searched the alleged Niphredil's bright green ones and found no malice, only faded scars from dark experiences from which she had obviously come out triumphant. Though she _could_ have chosen something more fitting of her appearance – a white flower was hardly suitable for long dark hair – but the symbolism was unmistakable. "It suits you."

They proceeded on the way back to the palace. Legolas could practically see the guillotine hanging over his head when he returned to his father with a strange elf girl. He refrained from sighing.

To take his mind off of the consequences of returning in a less-than-secret manner, Legolas stated, "You speak in a dialect I have never heard before." She only followed him across a log, and did not answer. He did not suppose there was much she could answer _with,_ for that matter. And 'oh really?' or 'is that so' would just be banal. From what he'd gathered of Niphredil's character, if it was not worth saying, she would not bother.

Besides, there was a much more interesting topic on hand: espying the carved branch – he recognized it as elder, now – in her hand cleverly disguised as one with the sword, Legolas wanted to see if could push her into revealing her powers.

"Would you prefer to answer my first question as to what you were doing alone in our woods by the King's interrogation, or would you answer me now and have me vouch for you?" Legolas hoped that she would agree to the latter. Though how much weight the vouch of a rogue prince would carry he knew not…

Lips pursing, Niphredil replied, "I cannot bear to tell this tale twice, and much of it I do not remember. I will speak with your father, Prince Legolas."

Curses. Though displeased that he would have to hear the same version of the story the King would, Legolas nodded.

Now, instead of dreading the admonishment of his overprotective father, Legolas could not wait for the king's tirade to be over with; he wanted to get Niphredil healed and learn of her story.

As they entered the stone fortress however, Legolas felt the dread come back in full force. He saw guards pause and stare at Niphredil, whether it was her beauty or that she was brazenly clad only in his tunic, he did not know.

Truly, Legolas did not wish to know. He could only hope that the scandal would not spread too far. It was enough that he had been labeled as a rebellious prince, he did not want to add 'lecherous' to the label.

Finally, he passed the final stone bridge and walked past the guards up to his father.

Legolas remembered belatedly that the guards would not let Niphredil pass armed. Hopefully, she would surrender her sword. What she would do with the carved elder branch, he did not know.

When he'd gotten close enough to his father, he automatically knelt before the king as any other elf would. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that she had indeed had the sense to surrender the sword. He did not see the elder branch anywhere, however.

"Father, I found this young lady, Niphredil, wounded and battling many spiders alone in the woods, and came to her aid. She seemed in need of healing, so I guided her back here."

The king's expression did not change, but his voice was sardonic. "And I would have several questions of you, Legolas: how came you across this… Niphredil… in the first place?"

Legolas stood, standing his ground against his father, the king. "We can discuss this later, Father. Right now Niphredil is in need of medical aid."

"Actually, these are just scratches." Niphredil pitched in, most unhelpfully.

Legolas turned to Niphredil and glared at her. Did she not realize that he was sticking his neck out for her?

"Though a bath would not go unappreciated." Niphredil hastily added, spotting Legolas' face expression. "Nor would a set of clothes."

There was a tense silence, as his father looked at him disapprovingly, not having glanced once at Niphredil. Legolas stared back at his father, his eyes hard. He heard a sigh from Niphredil's direction. He wondered, briefly, how this would look to her; strife between a father and son.

Eventually, a voice broke through the silence.

"My King. I cannot see your face."

Legolas wondered if Niphredil had any sense of self-preservation.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Of Organizing Thoughts

* * *

And after hearing what his dream-self had said, Harry could not even close his eyes in horror, for his dream-self had taken control of his body.

The knuckles gripping the arms of the throne clenched and grew white. _"What did you say?"_

The voice could freeze fire, and Harry felt even the Gryffindor in him shrinking back. A trace of unease could be seen in Legolas as well, as he took a slight step back from his father's throne. But Harry's dream-self remained serene. _"I merely wished to see the Elvenking of Greenwood the Great in all his splendor."_

The knuckles loosened very slightly at the flattery.

Harry, having given up trying to take back the control of his body, now watched the proceedings. 'With a silver-tongue like that, my dream-self could give a Slytherin a run for his money.  
'Wait, elven king?'

The shadowed figure spoke, _"Long has it been since these woods have been hailed as such." _The shadowed figure rose from his throne and took a step toward Harry. _"Who are you?"_

Smoothly, Harry's voice answered, "_I might ask you the same. Yours is not the voice of Oropher. I merely wish to see who has taken his place."_

During this conversation, Harry found himself organizing thoughts in his head once more. So the pointy-eared people in this dream were _elves!? _They were such a far cry from reality's house elves that he felt like he'd been slugged in the face.

But at the mention of this 'Oropher,' who had apparently been the previous ruler, the figure darted forward from the shadows and gripped Harry's arm. Very tightly.

Though Harry's dream-self was still smiling, Harry himself very much wanted to grimace, as it happened that he had suffered a rather deep gash in his arm in that very place.

"_You knew my father. His voice."_

The king, Harry noted through the haze of pain, was as fair as his son and looked far too young to have a son Legolas' age. Maybe these elves stopped aging at a certain point, Harry hypothesized. But no amount of hypothesizing dulled the pain.

"_Ah, so it is you, Thranduil. Forgive me for not recognizing your voice. You have matured." _Harry didn't know how he knew the man – elf – king – but it seemed he did in this dream. And Legolas hadn't known – of _course_ he hadn't known – and was looking at Harry with something between surprise and… was that betrayal? But Harry's mouth took no notice and continued to speak, _"So Oropher now dwells in the Halls of Mandos." _

Brilliant. Just brilliant. More backstory Harry didn't understand.

The elvenking stared hard at Harry, examining him. _"Eyes the shade of emerald… Hair as dark as a starless sky…" _Thranduil whispered. _"It cannot be." _His vice-like grip on Harry's arm loosened.

_"Yet it is." _Harry's dream-self sighed. Harry himself was sighing in relief from the pain in his arm.

This Thranduil _elf king _was backing away very slightly. "_Rumor was it that you had sailed about some three hundred years into Second Age – "_

A very Harry-like snort emitted from Harry's unsettlingly elegant dream-self._ "You forget who I was. I needed not set sail to take any soul to the Judge of the Dead."_

It amused Harry to see how quickly the already pale man – _elf –_ could lose what little color he had. He felt his lungs expand as his dream-self drew breath to ask (rather sardonically, too), _"Tell me, O' great Elvenking… How much time has passed since I allegedly set sail?"_

Rather shakily, Thranduil replied, _"The Second Age lasted 3441 years and now we are 3018 years into the third age, my lady."_

Harry had endured some unpleasant and unwanted titles through the ages, but the title 'my lady' had to take the cake. As if his dream-self was aware of Harry's horror, she laughed. _"Come now, Thranduil, even if you were but an elfling when I last saw you, surely you remember I do not hold with titles. Let us simply go by the name my incarnate has chosen. Call me Niphredil."_

"_I do not understand, my la – " _Thranduil shook his head._ "Niphredil. What do you mean by your… incarnate?"_

Harry then did a very feminine movement that he would never have done had he been in control of his body: he tucked his thick black hair behind his ear as he opened his mouth to answer.

Legolas' eyes widened and he exclaimed, _"You are not of elvenkind!"_

There was a moment of shocked silence following Legolas' statement.

To Harry's surprise, it was the king who admonished his son. _"Watch your tongue, Legolas! She is far older and wiser than we!" _Harry was torn between horror and laughter; as if mentioning age in front of a 'lady' was considered anything _near_ wise… _"She was present at the creation of Arda and is __**Nurundil**__, sole chosen satar of Mandos!"_

Oh. Wot? Being present at the creation of the world would indeed… make Harry's dream-self ancient… some however-many-years-the-First-Age was + 3441 + 3018 = a very long time…

But what chilled Harry's bones was the title that literally meant 'Death's Friend'.

Upon hearing the word 'Nurundil' Harry's dream-self withdrew, leaving Harry bewildered and now seemingly an imposter of his own body, feminized though it may be. But Legolas' dismay at Harry's supposed 'deception' had moved onto his father's 'defense' of Harry.

Poor excuse of a defense that it was.

_"**Enough**." _Harry said firmly, trying to reign in the tension between father and son. Turning to address Thranduil, Harry said,_ "O' great Elvenking," _He applied the same subtle sarcasm into his words as his dream-self had, _"I think I would very much appreciate the bath now, thank you." _He indicated his grimy body for emphasis.

The imitation did not seem to work as well as Harry hoped, as Thranduil seemed rather thrown by the change in subject. Harry privately breathed a sigh of relief when the king nodded his acquiescence. _"Of course… Niphredil." _He indicated a few guards accompany Harry to his chambers.

At once, Legolas made to follow.

Thranduil's sharp voice stayed him. _"Stay, Legolas. I have yet more questions for you." _

Harry winced when Legolas reluctantly remained behind. Well, he – or rather, his dream-self – hadn't succeeded in taking any of the tension away between father and son. If anything, he had exacerbated it. But who was to say his dream-self had the same motives as he did?

That thought made Harry stop dead in his tracks.

A guard noticed that Harry had stopped following._ "Lady Niphredil?" _

Was his dream giving him multiple personalities? Just for kicks?

Harry clenched his fist. 'By Merlin, I swear, James or Albus… Whichever of you it was…' Giving a painful smile to the guard, Harry replied, _"Just… Niphredil. Please_."

Nodding hesitantly, the guard proceeded to lead Harry to his chambers, and hopefully, the bath that would follow.

And Harry had to draw several, as the first few resulted in murky waters. It was only by the fourth bath that the water remained remotely transparent and Harry could begin to clean his wounds. Tergeo would only serve to irritate open cuts, as he'd found out the hard way back when he was still an auror wet behind the ears. Now that he'd cleaned away all the spider blood, he noted that his wounds weren't as bad as he'd first thought them to be.

In fact, the wound on his leg that had definitely been gouged by a branch now was only a relatively small cut. A side-effect of the dream? Well, he'd keep the cuts as they were, just to make sure it wasn't just his imagination.

Then again, it was a dream. Of course it was his imagination.

Harry's jet-black hair now reached mid-back. It was a miracle that strands hadn't gotten tangled in the tree branches or spider webs (then again, if they had, he wouldn't have hesitated to chop them off). The longest he'd had it in real life was to his shoulders, in tribute to Sirius, before Ginny had finally had enough. ("I don't care if it's a tribute to Sirius. Far from looking serious, you're starting to look ridiculous. Cut it. Now.") After that, Harry had worn his hair at normal length.

After considering whether he should cut it with a severing charm, Harry decided against it. It might be tradition to keep long hair here. After all, both Legolas and Thranduil had lengthy hair. And they were male. Wanting to maintain some amount of normalcy (his life desire), Harry resigned himself to long and, from his memory, rather tangly hair. Soaping his rather long hair with some difficulty, Harry desperately missed squeezable shampoo from the real world. But long had he realized that this dream was far from customizable. It seemed like the older Fred and George's customizable dream potion got, the more sinister it got as well; playing around with the dreamer's head, making things go seriously wrong whenever the dreamer remotely seemed to be having fun.

Harry would suggest making potions this way intentionally, if someone wanted to prank someone else. It would give them marvelous nightmares. With no feasible way to wake up.

As of now, he was trying his best to ignore his significantly changed anatomy. He'd gotten used to it physically, true, but that was because it was a dream. He wouldn't wish this on any man. Well, Voldemort maybe… no… Harry shuddered at the image of a female Voldemort. No, he would not wish that on the world.

When he was clean, Harry wrapped a towel around his shoulders and searched for something to wear. Spotting black cloth neatly folded nearby, Harry eagerly shook it out only to drop the cloth as if it had burned him.

"A… dress…" Harry choked out.

Nothing in all the wizarding world could force Harry Potter to wear a dress, even if it was only a dream.

So Harry used the Elder Wand (turned visible again as soon as the guards had left) to conjure breeches, a shirt, and a tunic as he had seen Legolas and guards wear (as well as a pair of underpants). He didn't care if it was suspicious, so long as he didn't have to wear a dress.

Now that he was fully clad and wasn't so desperate for a bath, Harry got a proper look around his room. It was spacious and rather dark, but not unfurnished.

As tired as he was, Harry felt restless, and he wanted to organize what he had learnt in the dream. So, pacing back and forth in his room, that was exactly what he did.

**1**. The acromantula in this dream were much more aggressive than the ones in real life (which was saying something). But he would avoid any clicking sounds at all costs, so that would hopefully be a moot point.

**2**. There were these unearthly beings called Elves, that couldn't be more different than house elves. They fashioned themselves Silvan. But there were Noldors too. Who probably were elves as well, as his dream-self had revealed with the Ron Syndrome incident following Legolas' introduction. Were there any other kinds of elves?

**3**. Harry's dream-self had cojones. Metaphorically. If verbally facing down a king and winning didn't count as having backbone, what did?

**4**. His dream-self had connections. Knowing two generations of Elven kings.

**5**. His dream-self had hung around during the creation of this world, making him – his dream-self, that is, older than… the world itself. (So exactly how ancient was he?) His dream-self had been around nearly seven thousand years ago… at the very least.

**6**. His dream-self was known as _Nurundil_.  
Death's Friend.  
But as Harry's dream-self had withdrawn at the very title, it was obvious that the title did not sit well with him… her… whatever. Honestly, it didn't quite sit well with Harry either. Anything concerned with the word 'death' that didn't involve the act of dying itself gave Harry the chills. While the title didn't imply that Harry was the Master of Death, it did imply Harry's dream-self was closely related with death.

That was about it, really.

After organizing all the thoughts crammed into Harry's head within the day, Harry suddenly felt very tired.

Harry espied a wooden armchair that caught his interest. He didn't think it would be very comfortable, but he gingerly sat on the wooden armchair anyway. To his surprise, it sank in around him comfortably; of all plants, it felt more like a very mushy aloe vera than anything else.

"_It is made of a tree called hwandorn."_

Harry quite nearly jumped out of the chair in surprise. But he recognized Legolas' voice.

What sounded suspiciously like a voice in the back of his mind clucked disapprovingly, but Harry shoved the paranoid thought aside for now.

"_Literally a tree of sponge, then." _Harry commented as he turned his head to look Legolas in the eye.

The elven prince stood stiffly. _"Forgive me my insubordination, Lady Nurundil, I – "_

In a flash, Harry had leapt up and was in Legolas' face, hissing, _"Do not. Call me by that name." _Harry was not sure if this was himself or his dream-self, but for once, they were in agreement. For some reason, he disliked that name very much. He was _not_ friends with death. It had taken too many of his comrades for him to call it friend.

Legolas looked very much taken aback at Harry's vehemence.

Harry, now more in control of himself, drew back, ashamed of his self. _"Forgive me, Prince Legolas. But I would rather you call me Niphredil."_

It may have just been Harry's imagination, but Legolas seemed rather relieved. "_As I prefer Legolas." _Apparently deciding to choose a safer topic, Legolas commented on Harry's attire. _"Was the dress not to your liking, Lady Niphredil?"_

Harry sighed. Could the whole 'lady' thing just off itself by getting eaten by a hippogriff? _"I prefer more practical clothing. The attire I am most used to are robes, and I find a dress undesirable. Also please, just Niphredil. I am no lady." _He smiled grimly to himself at that admission.

"_We could provide you with robes."_ Legolas offered.

Harry's lips quirked at how hard Legolas was trying to appease him. _"I am comfortable as I am now."_

Meeting Legolas' eyes, Harry questioned once again, "_Can we not be friends?" _Once again, he used the term _'seron'._

Legolas shifted uncomfortably. _"Niphredil, I do not quite think you know what being 'seron' entails."_

Harry frowned. _"What does it entail?"_

Though tinged pink, Legolas explained patiently, _"I have heard from my father the king that you are more familiar with Quenya. In Sindarin, however, 'Seron' can also mean 'lover.'"_

Though he had no idea that he had known a language called Quenya (if it was a language at all) Harry felt heat creeping up his neck. Struggling to swallow his embarrassment, Harry cleared his throat, _"Right, so is there something less… intimate?"_

To say the atmosphere was awkward would have been an understatement. Legolas broke it by saying, _"We can be 'mellon'. Sindarin for friends."_

Harry broke out in a genuine grin. He held out his right hand for Legolas to shake. But the elven prince merely looked at it with puzzlement. Harry clarified, _"It is tradition when friends meet. We shake hands."_

Legolas smiled wryly. _"I know of clasping hands. But 'tis a tradition among men, my lady." _He looked more amused when Harry stubbornly held out his hand. Eventually, Legolas gave in and clasped forearms with Harry, who was somewhat taken aback, having expected a gentlemanly shake of hand-to-hand. Not clasping _forearms._

But taking it in stride, Harry tightened his hold on Legolas' forearm. _"And I seem to remember asking you to call me Niphredil, not 'my lady'." _

Legolas simply smiled. _"All the better if it irks you, my lady." _

Harry wanted to break Legolas' arm at that, but released his forearm instead, choosing to be the better man. Not that Legolas would know. He motioned for Legolas to sit. _"Why not we talk more about each other, Mellon?"_ Harry sat back on the spongy chair, and after a moment of hesitation, Legolas sat upon a similar looking sofa. _"I seem to recall receiving an apology," _Harry started_, "for a natural reaction. Why the apology? You would not have led me back to Greenwood had you known I was not an elf. The deception was not intentional, I assure you. But the manner in which I reacted to your apology, unwarranted in the first place, warrants an apology from me."_

_"Yet 'tis precisely for that I need forgiveness." _Legolas admitted. _"Upon your reaction back with the king, I had seen that you had no desire to be addressed… as such, yet still addressed you with it anyway. For that you have my apologies. I had not quite realized the extent of your aversion to the title. I must admit I am not quite as familiar with Quenya as I would like, Niphredil. May I ask what it means? I am aware that the suffix '–ndil' means friend…"_

Despite not knowing what this 'Quenya' was, the meaning of 'Nurundil' was all too clear to Harry. Leaning back in his soft chair, he grimly answered, _"It means 'Death's Friend'." _Legolas sharply drew in a breath. Harry waved off the apology he knew was coming. _"I have merely seen death too many times for my liking, I suppose." _Legolas had no reply to that. Trying to lighten the mood, Harry quirked his lips and asked, _"Well, I doubt the Elven Prince himself would have come all the way here merely to goad and apologize to me, so I suppose you have another reason for this visit?"_

Immediately, Legolas took the opening. _"Yes, I actually came to ask where you'd gone, if you had not sailed." _

That question gave Harry pause. 'Well, dream-self? Got a backstory for that?'

Very, very reluctantly, Harry's dream-self emerged. _"Legolas, though we may be Mellon now, I am afraid I cannot tell you just a portion of my past without revealing the whole of it."_ Legolas' face betrayed his dismay. _"It must be all or nothing; it would be unfair to both you and I otherwise." _Harry felt his eyes burn into Legolas' blueish-gray ones. _"When I am ready, I will tell you. Pray do not ask me before then."_

Slowly, Legolas nodded.

When his dream-self retreated once more, Harry, annoyed, thought to himself that even _he_ could have said that. What was the point of surrendering his body to his dream-self, just to be cryptic? He didn't _do _cryptic, for Merlin's sake!

Legolas suggested that Harry looked tired, and Harry agreed. _"Yes, that is a good idea."_

_"You need not see me out, Niphredil."_

_"Nonsense. Of course I would see a friend out. Especially if he's a prince." _Harry teased as he walked Legolas to the door and waved cheerfully to said prince until his back was turned.

Shutting the door, Harry leaned against it sighed deeply.

Would this nightmare end when he went to sleep?

For some reason, there was no bed among the furnishings, so Harry fell asleep on the sofa, hoping that he would wake up with Ginny at his side, and be able to recount the dream for her, blow by blow. Leaving out, of course, the part that he was female…

* * *

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, favorites, and follows!

And for those of you thinking that Harry's being rather thick for constantly reminding himself he's in a dream, folks, he's in denial.

Or.

If you woke up one day, in an unfamiliar place, in a body of the opposite sex, would _you_ accept it as a reality? If _you_ suddenly had a vision of like, 5/5, and could do superhuman things, wouldn't you think of it as a dream? Especially if you knew of a potion with similar properties? (As far as I'm concerned, since people in the magical world still wear glasses, there isn't a way to fix vision magically either)


	4. Of Deer and Dreams

**Mandatory Disclaimer: **Neither the Potterverse nor Tolkienverse belong to a poor Korean college senior.

* * *

**Back to the Beginning**

* * *

**Legolas**

The rest of the past day

* * *

"What did you say?"  
Legolas could not have feared more for Niphredil's life when his father's voice grew cold.

"I merely wished to see the Elvenking of Greenwood the Great in all his splendor."  
Legolas could not have been more taken aback when Niphredil referred to Mirkwood by its former name, in its days of glory.

"Long has it been since these woods have been hailed as such. Who are you?"  
It seemed his father felt similarly, if not more so.

"I might ask you the same. Yours is not the voice of Oropher. I merely wish to see who has taken his place."  
Legolas could not have been more caught off guard when Niphredil knew the name of his grandsire.

"You knew my father. His voice."  
And his father had definitely felt more so, judging by how he had reacted in the way he had, capturing Niphredil's arm in what had to be a painful grip.

"Ah, so it is you, Thranduil. Forgive me for not recognizing your voice. You have matured."

But Legolas was proven wrong when Niphredil, smiling serenely, had looked up at Thranduil… fondly?

No, these surprises were not from Niphredil; Niphredil was the young elf, not yet quite comfortable in her own skin. This one was the one that had briefly arisen when he had asked for her name – the ageless one. But Niphredil had been herself when she had come up with her name.

But Legolas had never felt more betrayed when the not-Niphredil tucked her dark, thick locks behind a _rounded _ear. Of mankind.

He finally snapped.

"You are not of elvenkind!"

And his father had snapped back. "She is far older and wiser than we! She was present at the creation of Arda and is **Nurundil**, sole chosen satar of Mandos!"

But by now, the original Niphredil had returned; Legolas could tell, even though she was still pretending to be the ageless one. Probably because the ageless one held sway over his father, and the original was desperate to wash off the spider blood.

He could not tell which one to direct his fury at: his father or the ageless not-Niphredil. So he decided to direct it at both.

But he realized the trigger that caused the ageless one to retreat and bring the original back seemed to be amongst something his father had last said. The ageless not-Niphredil had not seemed to retreat at the mention of age – why would she? The greater the age, the greater the influence and respect. Her presence at the creation of Arda had come as a shock, yes, but would the creation of the world be such a shameful thing? No, that had not been the key either.

So it had to be her title of '_Nurundil_, satar of Mandos'.

But as Niphredil was leaving with the guards and he about to follow, the king had commanded, "Stay, Legolas. I have yet more questions for you."

It was with great reluctance he stayed behind. He could tell from Niphredil's gait that she was reluctant to leave him as well. Though he felt gratified by that, it did not lessen his anger toward her counterpart, the not-Niphredil – _Nurundil_.

"Did I not expressly order you that you were not to go out?"

Thranduil, who had forcibly separated him from Niphredil, was now circling around Legolas like a bird of prey, eying him dangerously. But Legolas did not shrink back. _He_ had brought Niphredil here, and it would be _he _who would stand guard over her.

So it was rather testily that Legolas reminded his father, "'Tis been near sixty years I have last gone on patrol – " He didn't even need to have Niphredil on his mind to be annoyed about that.

"Answer the question, Legolas." Thranduil interrupted.

"Yes, you have, Father." The way the king kept him under his thumb tested the borders between irritation and anger. But far be it for Legolas to show his father his emotion. He kept his face a blank mask.

"Next, just _how_ did you come across Lady Nurundil?"

By now, Legolas was having a hard time trying not to eye his father resentfully. His father only paid attention to things he cared for, and apparently wounded elven maiden did not count among them.

"_Niphredil,"_ Legolas reminded his father,_ "_was facing a whole colony of spiders alone." Legolas was sorely tempted to add on, 'As I told you when we first came in.'

Thranduil paused mid-step and frowned. "Strange…"

That single word piqued Legolas' attention. "What is it you find strange?"

Thranduil's lips thinned as he returned his focus back on his son. "Strange, Legolas, as I thought _I_ was the one asking questions." He resumed circling around Legolas. "How long have you been sneaking out?"

Legolas had believed his self to be honorable enough to tell the truth, but at the face of possibly being encaged in the palace longer, he lied smoothly, "This is my first."

Immediately knowing it was a lie, Thranduil sighed deeply. "Legolas, I know you better than you think; I too, once stood in your shoes, but think from _my_ perspective for a moment."

The perspective of an overprotective father. Seeking to punish his son for want of a bit of freedom. Legolas felt no Arda-shattering revelations. After a moment of silence, Legolas prompted, "And?"

Looking at his son in a most displeased manner, Thranduil said, "If you ever have a son, I hope he turns out just like you."

Legolas scoffed, "There is a saying among _Menn_, that the apple does not fall far from the tree. "

Not understanding what the saying precisely meant but well aware it was no compliment to him, Thranduil grit his teeth.

"Since this is _technically,_" the king shot a significant look toward his son, "your first offense, and you have brought Lady Nurun – Niphredil here safely, your punishment will be light." Thranduil paused, as if thinking of tedious tasks that needed doing. "Ah, yes. Since _you_ are the one that brought her here, get Lady Niphredil caught up with the times. It has been over six millennia since she has last dwelt on Arda." He reminded Legolas. "She will be more familiar with Quenya than Sindarin. Furthermore, she will believe that *Adûnaic is still the Common Speech. Inform her that Westron has taken its place for some three millennia, and teach it to her, if you can. That will be your punishment."

_[*Adûnaic: as you might have guessed, the common language that preceded Westron.]_

Unable to believe his luck, Legolas could barely keep himself from skipping out of the stone circle.

He had not been forced to stay inside the palace for any longer. He had a chance to unearth what strange powers Niphredil possessed. And he also had a chance to uncover why young Niphredil and the ageless Nurundil shared a body.

"Legolas." Though already halfway across the bridge, Legolas automatically turned to face the king, his father. "Take care not to fall in love." His father's face was serious.

Confused and uncomfortable at the unexpected turn the topic had taken, Legolas merely bowed in agreement and started off again.

Why on Arda would he fall in love? In times like these, most of all? Legolas' face darkened as his thoughts wandered to the creature called Gollum that Estel had brought prisoner to Mirkwood some years ago.

But the unrelated topic of love (_love? _Legolas shook his head to his self) was not issue at hand. No, Legolas' goal, be it short term (months, possibly years) or long term (a few decades, possibly centuries) was discovering the truth behind Niphredil.

First things first, he would find her chambers; easily done as the location was given to him by a guard.

Next, Legolas needed to prioritize; figure out her powers or issue of the shared body first?

He figured he should tackle the latter of the two issues first. Which was daunting, considering how one personality was reckless and naïve, and while the was tranquil but, considering how she had tricked the king into revealing his face and doing precisely what she wanted, manipulative. (Niphredil's 'manipulation' of the king to allow her to bathe did not count, as it did no harm to anyone.)

But Legolas had walked faster than he had realized, as he had already arrived at the suite reserved for elven guests held in highest esteem, where the guards had led Niphredil.

…

Having long let himself into the suite, Legolas was starting to think he'd come too early; he'd seen how crusted with blood Niphredil had been; it would take a long time to get to clean from that, when he heard the splashing of a body emerging from the baths.

When she emerged from the bathing room, she was not wearing the dress the servants would have no doubt given her. Instead, she somehow had acquired a soldier's uniform… except it was in her size. Which was not possible, even with all the elvish seamstresses' skill and speed. And he'd been standing guard of the door the whole time.

It had to be her mysterious powers, which puzzled Legolas further and further. So the elder branch was not just a weapon? It could perform other, less aggressive (he hesitated to refer to them as 'mundane') tasks as well?

Standing unnoticed in the doorway, Legolas almost felt like a voyeur. Niphredil – it was obvious it was she from the way she carried herself – was completely unaware of his presence as she paced back and forth. Her hair hung free around her waist, a little tamer now that it wet, but still not brushed. Indeed, it looked like a brush would be of little help with hair such as hers.

Legolas briefly wondered if his fingers would have any better luck, weaving through her thick, dark locks… He abruptly shook the thought off.

His true goal was to discern whether the ageless Nurundil could be provoked into an appearance.

While Niphredil paced, she murmured to herself something about… a-kro-man-tue-la… a finger on her left hand ticked.

Elves. Something about ha-uce elves… Then Silvan, and Noldors. Why did she not list the Sindar? But another finger ticked.

Something about a king. His father, Legolas presumed. A third finger ticked.

The fourth finger tick was about kings as well. Maybe his grandsire?

The thumb came out at… was that dismay that he saw?… of her age. Had she been unaware of her true age? Then again, this was Niphredil. She did seem a bit… lost. Perhaps she had lost part of her memories.

A finger from her other hand came out, as well as a single word. _Nurundil. _Niphredil stopped her movement altogether. She stood as still as stone.

This furthered Legolas' suspicions that 'Nurundil' was indeed the key word.

Suddenly Niphredil sighed and looked around. Her eyes landed on the hwandorn chair and she approached it. Carefully, probably thinking that it would have the solidity of oak, Niphredil perched herself on the chair and was promptly swallowed by it.

Now that she was seated, Legolas thought there would be no better time to speak up.

"It is made of a tree called hwandorn."

Tired and slightly surprised green eyes turned to look at him. "Literally a tree of sponge, then."

The green in the uniform made her eyes look almost luminous, Legolas distantly thought. Meanwhile, the forefront, warrior part of Legolas' mind steered himself for the possible disaster that would take place after he said the 'key word'._ 'Prepare thyself, Legolas,' _he thought to himself.

"Forgive me my insubordination, Lady Nurundil, I – "

It seemed that the title 'Nurundil' _was_ indeed the key word, for before Legolas could blink, Niphredil or the ageless not-Niphredil – he could not tell the difference now – was hissing in his face. _"Do not. Call me by that name."_

Legolas had prepared himself, but the extent of her wrath astonished him.

Suddenly, he could tell it was Niphredil who seemed alarmed at her – if indeed they were her own – actions. Stepping back and closing her eyes, she whispered, "Forgive me, Prince Legolas. But I would rather you call me Niphredil."

Legolas picked up right where she left off. "As I prefer Legolas."

Having confirmed that Nurundil was a key word to the dual personality, Legolas casually commented on Niphredil's attire. Anything she said – or did not say – could be a clue to her powers. "Was the dress not to your liking, Lady Niphredil?"

Niphredil's eyes rolled up to the stars and she sighed. Perhaps it was the 'lady' title? _"_I prefer more practical clothing. The attire I am most used to are robes, and I find a dress undesirable. Also please, just Niphredil. I am no lady." The bitter smile on her face alerted Legolas to some secret meaning that only she understood.

"We could provide you with robes." It was hardly proper for a maiden to tromp around in breeches, after all. And Legolas did want to somewhat apologize for antagonizing Niphredil, even though he did not regret doing the same to ageless Nurundil.

Niphredil's lips twitched at his offer as if she found it amusing. "I am comfortable as I am now." After a moment, she asked out of nowhere, "Can we not be seron?"

Legolas almost choked. He _had_ to update Niphredil on the meaning of that particular vocabulary word. Feeling rather warm in the face, he started, "Niphredil, I do not quite think you know what being 'seron' entails."

She frowned, reminding Legolas slightly of a frustrated child. "What does it entail?"

Though his face heated up further, Legolas tried to word it as diplomatically as possible. "I have heard from my father the king that you are more familiar with Quenya. In Sindarin, however, 'Seron' can also mean 'lover.'"

Legolas could practically hear the cogs in Niphedril's head turning and her face turned red as well. She cleared her throat and attempted to say stoutly, "Right, so is there something less… intimate?"

There was an easy solution for that. For a lot of the time, Niphredil seemed lost, akin to a boat afloat in the water with no rudder; she needed an anchor, a compass. In a strange world that had moved on without her, she needed a friend.

"We can be 'mellon'. Sindarin for friends."

For the first time Legolas had met her, Niphredil's face alit with a genuine smile. It made her glow, enhancing her inherent beauty.

With that delighted smile, she held out a hand. It reminded Legolas of a mannish tradition, but it couldn't be… did she want him to kiss it? But it wasn't at the right angle, and did not match with what he had observed of Niphredil's personality thus far…

Upon seeing Legolas' uncertain look, Niphredil elucidated, "It is tradition when friends meet. We shake hands."

…So it _was_ the mannish tradition. Smiling wryly, Legolas replied, "I know of clasping hands. But 'tis a tradition among men, my lady." He was further amused when Niphredil pursed her lips and far from withdrawing her hand, instead stuck it out further. Humoring her, Legolas did exactly as the menn when they greeted each other.

Though Niphredil seemed taken aback at the force with which he clasped her forearm, Legolas himself was rather surprised when Niphredil in turn tightened her hold on his. By the Entlords, her grip was strong for a maiden.

"And I seem to remember asking you to call me Niphredil, not 'my lady'."

So that was what the hold had tightened for. "All the better if it irks you, _my lady_."

After a moment of stiffness, Niphredil let Legolas' forearm go. "Why not we talk more about each other, friend?" Niphredil motioned for Legolas to sit. "I seem to recall receiving an apology, for a natural reaction. Why the apology?"

Because that 'natural reaction' had been entirely unwarranted. Legolas was supposedly one of the younger (youngest, actually), more progressive of the Silvan elves. But surprise after surprise had led to an outburst.

Unaware of his thoughts, Niphredil continued, "You would not have led me back to Greenwood had you known I was not an elf." She caught his eye and hastily added as if fearing his ire, "The deception was not intentional, I assure you. But the manner in which I reacted to your apology, unwarranted in the first place, warrants an apology from me."

'It was only disguised as an apology…' Legolas thought miserably. But he could not say the real reason behind his utterance of the title 'Nurundil' before her. So he created half-truths, hoping to Elbereth one day that he would be able to tell her the whole truth.

But what was the meaning of 'Nurundil,' to trigger such a significant reaction from the being before him? "I must admit I am not quite as familiar with Quenya as I would like, Niphredil. May I ask what it means? I am aware that the suffix '–ndil' means friend…"

Bitterly, Niphredil said, "It means 'Death's Friend'."

Legolas sharply drew in a breath and Niphredil hurried to assure him, "I have merely seen death too many times for my liking, I suppose."

Niphredil's felt too young a spirit to have to feel the need to assure him, Legolas thought with dismay.

Apparently feeling that the atmosphere was too heavy, Niphredil hastily changed the subject. "Well, I doubt the Elven Prince himself would have come all the way here merely to goad and apologize to me, so I suppose you have another reason for this visit?"

An opportunity to delve into Niphredil's backstory had come, and Legolas took it gladly. "Yes, I actually came to ask where you'd gone, if you had not sailed." Legolas would find out Niphredil's story and her hurts, so he could attempt to heal them.

For the briefest moment, Niphredil looked uncertain, and at long last, it was the ageless Nurundil who answered.

"Legolas, though we may be friends now," Legolas thought spitefully that the day he sailed would pass before he and Nurundil would be friends, "I am afraid I cannot tell you just a portion of my past without revealing the whole of it. It must be all or nothing; it would be unfair to both you and I otherwise." Ageless, green eyes burned into Legolas' own. "When I am ready, I will tell you. Pray do not ask me before then."

'So in the end, when _Nurundil_ herself is prepared, she'll tell me.' Legolas thought as he slowly nodded. 'Is Niphredil in agreement with this? Or does she herself not know the whole story? She _did_ say that she didn't remember all of her past back on the way to the palace.'

Niphredil emerged once more, and she looked even more tired.

"You look exhausted. Mayhap you should rest?"

"Yes, that is a good idea."

Rising from his chair, Legolas said, "You need not see me out, Niphredil."

A slight smile twisted Niphredil's lips. "Nonsense. Of course I would see a friend out. Especially if he's a _prince._"

Legolas playfully made a face at the last sentence. Bidding Niphredil good night (though the sun had yet to set) he walked back to his own rooms.

Legolas' day had not turned out at all as he'd expected. It did not seem as if the rest of completion of his house arrest sentence would be as boring as the last sixty years had been. He'd made a 'young' friend, whose ageless self he had already learnt to be wary of.

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Of Deer and Dreams

* * *

Harry picked moodily at his breakfast. It wasn't because the food didn't look good; on the contrary, the food looked delicious. It was the company.

Breakfast was to be with family. With Ginny. With his visiting sons and Lily. His hyperactive grandkids.

Not a solemn affair among stiff-necked warrior elves and certainly not in his dreamscape.

The night before, Harry'd had a vivid dream:

_Harry ran alongside a herd of deer. Surprisingly, he was able to keep up. One stag galloped beside him, and he was reminded of his patronus, and furthermore of dad's animagus form. And he imagined the doe galloping beside him would be his mom…_

"_Sataressë!"_

_Reflexively, Harry turned his head forward and felt himself smile at the woman who ran, or rather, danced at the forefront of the herd of the deer trailing after her._

_The dancer grabbed the stalk of a sapling and deliberately swung around with a grace that Harry couldn't even hope to muster as she waited for him to catch up._

_With a brilliant smile, she asked, "Are you tired already, Sataressë? Have you already forgotten the song of fleet feet?"_

_Harry hadn't a clue as to what she was on about, but suddenly, the woman was singing a beautiful, sprightly tune, and Harry found himself singing with her in a beautiful harmony, and he immediately felt lighthearted and more energetic._

_Smiling at her once more, Harry found himself saying, "What would I ever do without you, Nessa?"_

'_Nessa,' smiling and dancing around, hummed, "Plod around, I suppose. Slaving away all day for grouchy old Námo…"_

_All of Harry's good humor evaporated, as did the smile on his face. __Nessa seemed to realize she had crossed a line and added, "Not that I'm saying gathering and scattering souls is tedious, but as you are Námo's sole companion, being fleet of feet _does_ help the job get done, does it not?"_

_Harry felt his face soften. This dancer lady – Nessa – felt so much like the sister he'd never had…_

And he woke.

To his dreamscape. Or nightmare-scape, depending on how you looked at it.

Somewhat unnerved at the thought of a dream within a dream, Harry swung his legs off the sofa. But that dream had felt more like a memory… the memory of his dream-self, who apparently answered to the name _Sataressë_.

Dolefully, Harry looked at his small, bare feet. Feminine. He then looked over the rest of himself; all his wounds from the previous day had healed, and he didn't feel the least bit sore. Then again, this was a drea –

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

"_Niphredil?"_

Harry went over to the door and opened it to reveal Legolas, resplendent in silver-grey robes. He made Harry feel extremely plebeian, still rumpled in last night's clothes. Not to mention the tangled mess of his currently ridiculously long hair.

Legolas opened his mouth, only to shut it, staring openly at Harry's rather unsightly state. Though it couldn't be more unsightly than yesterday's blood bath.

So Harry spoke first. _"Did the stars shine brightly on you yester eve?"_ What? What was that he had he just said? Sometimes the strangest phrases seemed to tumble out of Harry's mouth, like the Ron Syndrome, but… coked up. From what Harry could discern, it seemed like a strange way to ask if one 'had a good night'.

However, Legolas did not seem to find it strange at all. _"Yes, brightly indeed. And of you, Niphredil?"_

Harry hesitated. He didn't want to seem rude, but… _"I didn't… have a bed." _He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed.

Legolas seemed bemused at first; then understanding dawned on his face. _"You require sleep."_ He seemed rather astonished, and it was voiced in a rather questioning statement.

Harry couldn't believe what he had just heard. What, were elves of Arda such _perfect_ beings that not only were they all beautiful and had superhuman abilities, but they didn't even need _sleep_?

Correctly interpreting Harry's feelings by the rather disgruntled expression on his face, Legolas added, _"At times, us elves are in want of rest, as well."_

This didn't appease Harry one bit, as he knew Legolas was just saying it to be polite. But Legolas had already moved past that topic, and was presenting Harry with folded velvet. Bemused, Harry took what he expected were clothes.

_"May I?"_

Harry didn't know what Legolas was asking before the elven prince basically invaded his room and ushered him into the washroom to get changed.

Putting on the robes in the washroom, Harry discovered with a sigh that they dragged on the floor, trailing after him some half-meter or so. After some consideration, he silently charmed the ends to repel dirt. He had no desire to be a walking dust mop, thank you very much.

Harry avoided looking at the mirror until the last second.

But as he reluctantly checked his appearance in the full size mirror, his jaw very nearly dropped open. The mirror showed a woman more beautiful than a veela, but to think that mirror reflected _him _made him sure he was dreaming. Of course, his hair was still a bird's nest – more of a bird's palace, at this length – trust the dream to get his less important, more troublesome traits right.

The dark green velvet robe was grand, edged in intricate gold stitches that depicted leaves and various flora. It was, however, a bit _too _reminiscent of a dress for Harry's liking.

But despite it all, he would honestly have asked the woman in the mirror to the Yule Ball over Fleur and Cho Chang combined (and maybe Ginny, he hadn't known her that well then), had the woman in the mirror been available back then. Did that make him a narcissist?

But there was another pressing problem: the neckline of the 'robe' sloped a little _too_ low and loosely. As a young man, he may have surreptitiously appreciated it; as a middle-aged man, he probably looked away from it; as an old gramp, he disapproved of it. He hadn't even approved of his daughter wearing necklines even half this low; showing this much cleavage was ridiculous! And he had thought the elves were _respectable _folk!

Gritting his teeth, Harry used magic to tighten the velvet and raise the neckline a bit, just enough that less than a quarter of cleavage was showing. It rather nauseated him to think that the cleavage was his own. They wouldn't notice the change, right? After all, the robes dragged on the floor, so they couldn't have gotten his measurements right. He stowed the Elder Wand in the fold of his robes.

Harry emerged from the washroom in his slightly altered robe only to find Legolas wielding a hairbrush.

_"You look very fair in those robes, Niphredil. But your hair is of a completely different matter. Brushes_, _**my lady**__, are meant to be used."_

Harry hadn't used a hairbrush in years. And by years, he meant _decades._ He hadn't bothered to use one after Ginny demanded that he cut his Sirius-tribute hair. Not that decades would mean much to these Elven folk, who apparently lived over six thousand years, probably more.

"_Most every creation was meant to be used some way or another. But not all of these creations actually work, as you will find with that hairbrush, __**Prince**__ Legolas."_ Harry grouchily parried.

Although Harry's hair didn't generally agree with hairbrushes, Legolas (with somewhat strained patience) tamed Harry's tangles and even managed two braids from above his ears much like his own, but thicker. But there was nothing to be done about his bangs.

So it was a slightly dissatisfied Legolas and a significantly disagreeable Harry that entered the room in which the Silvan elves residing in the palace dined.

Upon seeing Legolas and Harry, the elves suddenly came to a hush, almost every head turned to the two.

Legolas led them to the king's table, where Thranduil was eating.

"_Legolas." _He seemed to hesitate before he referred to Harry._ "…Niphredil." _For a moment, Harry had honestly thought that the king was going to call him 'Lady Nurundil'. Seeing how he had reacted after Legolas had called him that, Harry dreaded to think how he or Sataressë would react to being addressed so by the king. _"I hope the stars shined brightly on you yester eve?"_

Letting out a noncommittal sound, Harry sat down.

And here was, still in his dream, shifting food around on his plate, breaking fast with bloody elves. Not even house elves, but bloody perfect, beautiful, and elegant elves.

"_Is the food not to your taste, my lady?" _An elf across from him asked, and Harry was startled out of his thoughts. _"Oh, the food is fine, thank you." _Nobody spoke after that, and Harry himself did not dare start a conversation; he had long learnt that the dream, despite being _his_, was way over his head. He had also learnt that the best hope of deterring the demented version of the Ron Syndrome was simply to keep his mouth shut.

After the most painfully silent breakfast Harry had since his school years, Legolas beckoned for him to follow.

"_Where are we going?" _Harry asked as Legolas swept ahead of him. He strangely seemed a bit tense. Perhaps he was displeased that he was stuck babysitting Harry?

"_The tome room. You have some six millennia of catching up to do, and I am to assist you." _

Harry supposed that 'tome room' was their version of saying 'library'. And six millennia sounded very daunting, but Harry knew that his self had way more to 'catch up' on. He would, probably, have to learn how to read. How would he explain that to Legolas? Maybe his dream-self – Sataressë – would help him.

However, once Harry stepped into it, he realized the 'tome room' could hardly be considered to a library: it was literally just one room, with a single oak table in the centre. Though packed with large books, one room would hardly be Hermione's version of a library, and could not even begin to compare with the Hogwarts library. Harry strongly suspected that it didn't have a single fictional book. Did all elves live like this?

First thing in the lineup of 'catching up' was not a history tome, but a few sheaves of parchment. Spreading one out, Legolas said, _"This is a map of the Second Age."_

Harry had to put on a poker face, as he did not recognize anything. There was something that looked like mangled Africa, India and a deformed Europe… but not much else. They were all labeled, which Harry could miraculously read, but they were all names, that didn't sound familiar to Harry at all. But he located Eryn Calen, _Greenwood, _where they were currently located.

Legolas spread a second scroll which turned out to be a map as well, but it much more convoluted, with a lot more labels. _"And this is a map of the age we live in now."_

Though Harry was not well versed in maps, he could tell one thing. There was significantly less landmass in the second map. And he distinctly felt that a part of him – his dream-self, Sataressë – was deeply disturbed, and she, in her shock, came out to control Harry's body.

_"Where have Aman and Tol Eressëa gone? And what of Númenor?"_

Legolas' tenseness became obvious, and his face hardened. _"Ilúvatar made the world round and removed the Grey Havens from Arda."_

"_And Númenor?"_ Sataressë demanded.

"_Ilúvatar saw Númenor fit to be drowned."_ Legolas said in clipped tones.

Imagining a whole civilization underwater, Harry thought it sounded a bit like Atlantis. Honestly, it seemed like a fairytale. He was living – _dreaming, _he reminded himself – in a warped fairytale.

Taking the silence as an unasked question, Legolas said, _"Many Númenóreans came to resent Elros' decision to become mortal and resented us elves as well. When the 25th king of Númenor, Ar-Pharazôn sailed west, set upon conquering Valinor, Ilúvatar himself changed Arda."_

"So_ all of Elros' descendants are dead." _Sataressë stated as she sat down, her numbness spilling over to Harry as well.

Legolas corrected her._ "Not so, my lady. A _Númenórean named_ __Ilendil and his following___ remained faithful to Elvenkind and reached Middle Earth before Númenor sank.__"

_"So there are yet Dúnedain left upon Arda." _Sataressë closed her eyes.

_"But we are getting ahead of ourselves. 'Twas almost three millennia after you left. Yet this all started five-hundred years into the Second Age."_

_"What happened then?" _Sataressë's voice was quiet, her eyes still closed.

_"'Twas little more than a century after your disappearance that the Dark Lord Sauron returned."_

At the words 'Dark Lord,' Harry's eyes flew open. But only for a brief moment, as Sataressë seemed to find the return of this Sauron alarming, as well. _"Did you just say the name 'Sauron'?" _Sataressë whispered.

Legolas said, _"You heard me truly, my lady."_

Sataressë's eyes narrowed. _"He pled for mercy, and Eönwë let him go. He could have captured him… but he allowed Sauron to flee. And I am sure that Sauron wrought much evil upon Middle Earth. I am unsure if I desire to hear what he has done."_

Legolas too, sat down before the maps. _"I was not yet born for his deception, but I hear he came in a fair form under the false name of Annatar, Lord of Gifts."_

_"…and he befriended the elves?"_

_"That is correct. You are wise indeed, my lady."_

Harry distantly noted that Legolas was calling him 'my lady' without a trace of humor or teasing, but he was much more focused on this 'Sauron'.

Fair form; Tom Riddle's handsome form.

Deception; Tom Riddle's specialty.

Dark Lord; Dark Lord.

It seemed that Harry had been craving adventures (though not necessarily suicidal) indeed, if the blood pounding in his ears was of any indication. For the first time in decades, Harry was truly excited.

So he fought to take control of his body, his auror side wanting to grill Legolas of Sauron's history, capabilities, power, to get to work on how his mind worked. But a voice whispered in the back of Harry's mind, _Patience, Niphredil. You will get your turn. You are not yet aware of Sauron's history, while I am._

_"Nothing comes without a price. What did Sauron give, and to what end?"_

_"Knowledge in arts and magic. He taught elven smiths how to forge rings of power."_

Able to tell that 'rings of power' needed to be capitalized, Sataressë asked,_ "How many Rings of Power were forged in total?"_

_"Twenty, nineteen of them by elven-smiths of Eregion."_

"Eregion?"

Legolas pointed at the map of the Second Age._ "Mayhap this map was created after you left, my lady, but 'tis here, south of Imladris."_

_"Imladris…"_ Harry could tell that Sataressë was unfamiliar with that queerly named city as well. _"…I see. And the twentieth ring?" _Harry thought that Sataressë probably already suspected what had happened, but just wanted to make sure.

_"Sauron forged it in secret."_

It was Sataressë's heart that was beating loudly now. _"And were these twenty rings all scattered amongst the elves?" _Despite her desperation, her voice remained calm.

Legolas answered with a hint of grim humor, though where the humor lay Harry could not see for the life of him._ "There is a song, my lady, of the Rings of Power."_

_"Would you sing it for me, Legolas?"_

With a voice as clear as bells, Legolas sang,__ "Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,  
____Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,  
__Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,  
__One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne  
__In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.  
__One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,  
__One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them  
__In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie."__

_"Legolas, tell me that the rings belonging to the elves were not tainted by Sauron."_ Three. A lot better than twenty.

_"They were not, my lady. 'Tis said that Celebrimbor forged them without Sauron's influence."_

_"Ah. Fëanor's granchild."_ She shook her head.

The three rings that had been forged for the elf lords were Nenya, Vilya, and Narya. All three Rings' current wielders' whereabouts were unknown.

And so it went: Sataressë discovering just how much of Arda had changed in the six millennia of her absence, and Harry mixing up names and struggling to catch up. However, it was far better than History of Magic by Professor Binns and time flew by in a flash, with them skipping lunch without knowing it.

But by the end, Sataressë too, seemed to grow weary of reacting to new information. So she 'abandoned ship' and left Harry to it when they both discovered that Adûnaic had been replaced by Westron and to function properly outside of the woods, one had to know how to speak the Common Tongue. Harry hadn't a clue as to what Adûnaic was like, so he probably had a better chance at learning it.

_"So how **does** one go about learning a new language?" _Harry asked, folding his arms.

Legolas seemed to have looked forward to this part of the lesson, as he perked up. _"Well, Niphredil – "_

_"Oh? You're not going to use 'my lady' anymore?"_ Harry cocked an eyebrow as he interrupted.

For the briefest moment Legolas seemed a bit uncomfortable, before he just shrugged. _"It seemed appropriate to refer to you as 'my lady' at the time, as your existence stretches back to the creation of Arda."_

Rolling his eyes, Harry muttered to himself in English, "No matter what world, elves are flighty…"

Legolas gave him a sidelong look. _"Do you know dwarvish?"_

Harry strongly suspected that Sataressë did, but he merely said sternly, _"The number of languages under my belt, **young prince**, are none of your concern."_

_"Ah, but my lady, you forget that I am also your friend."_

_"Friends don't refer to each other by titles, my **prince.**"_

_"Well, they might in this case."_

_"Let us just get on with the learning, Legolas."_

_"Indeed. You are wise, Niphredil."_

_"You said that already._

So they started with simple words and greetings in Westron.

Come dinner, Harry was cursing Legolas, Sataressë, himself, and whoever had given him this unbreakable dream potion.

* * *

A/N: I didn't expect this story to get so many reviews! For those of who read, followed, favorited, and reviewed, and PMed me, you have my deepest gratitude.

I have come to a decision: I will not be placing the Fem!Harry in the summary until I finish the story, or in the case that I unfortunately succumb to RL.

Instead, I have drawn a cover that features a rather feminine Harry. That should do it, right? …Right…? Unless I live in a place where men are either particularly manly or unattractive…

Again, for those of you thinking Harry is thick, he's only been in this "dreamworld" for 2 days. It hasn't been that long. But next chapter finally speeds up and hopefully the currently nonexistent adventure genre will come into play.


	5. Of Escaping the Elves

**Compulsory Disclaimer: **If I owned Tolkienverse I wouldn't have to do so much research. If I owned Potterverse, I wouldn't write fanfiction.

* * *

**Back to the Beginning**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Of Escaping the Elves

* * *

"_How did the stars shine upon you yester eve?"_

"_The same as usual, Legolas. And you?"_

These days, Harry took care to answer the question as vaguely as possible. He'd once made the mistake of opening his mouth without thinking and answered the greeting with, _"The stars in my rest were eclipsed by a light of silver and gold." _The demented version of the Ron Syndrome had reared its head again, in front of Thranduil, of all people, who set his eating utensils aside, looking as if he'd lost his appetite. On second glance, he appeared rather angry.

"_Is that why you came back, then? To convince us to sail?"_

Harry squinted, trying to recall what the king was referring to. Sail… All elves were given the invitation by the Valar… his mind worked overtime, until he finally remembered. Setting sail to Valinor, the Undying lands…

And he was immediately offended.

Not only had he been wrongfully accused, but also because Harry, on principle, was not the sort to try and _convince_ anybody to do anything they didn't want to do. He'd either tricked them into doing it (in his younger days with Ron and Hermione), or ordered it, (as Head Auror) or left them well alone (his sons when they argued). Besides, the Silvan elves had a perfectly well run civilization here (even if they had giant spiders on their borders), why would they uproot their whole culture to go to an unfamiliar place?

"_By no means am I here to convince anyone to do anything." _Harry replied, insulted that anybody would think that of him. Now he wanted nothing more than to give Thranduil a tongue lashing, and he knew the perfect person to do it.

His dream-self – Sataressë – took over. _"As far as I am concerned, the Eldar can stay here until the stars fall off Elbereth and Arda ends. I, for one, do not wish to set foot in Valinor ever again."_

Legolas raised an eyebrow. _"And why would that be, my lady?"_

Sataressë replied, _"There is one Lord in particular that I have no desire to see." _

The word '_Námo'_ echoed through Harry's mind.

…

Even though it had been a misunderstanding, it had taken over a week for Thranduil to speak to Harry again. Not that Harry minded much.

Over the past month, Harry had a chockfull of dreams that seemed to be Sataressë's memories. Though he looked forward to dreams of running with deer, those were precious few, and had more memories of songs of power, and of battle.

So many battles…battles between the Valar and whom Harry came to recognize as Melkor, or Morgoth during the making of the earth; the destruction of the silver tree and the golden tree; the creation of the sun and the moon; and the awakening of mankind. Many battles concerned three shining jewels – Silmarils – made by a dark haired elf named Fëanor, and caused the battle between elves. Then the battle that eventually led to the final imprisonment of Morgoth.

Many songs that Sataressë had learnt from various Valar remained in his head, to what end Harry didn't know. But he had tried whistling a few notes from the song Nessa had taught him, and immediately felt lighter.

Now, Harry, more or less, had an outline of what happened before Sataressë had left, of her relations with all of the Valar, save for Mandos; which left quite a lot of information to be desired, because he clearly remembered Thranduil calling Sataressë 'Nurundil, the sole chosen satar of Mandos'.

Harry got the distinct feeling that Sataressë had panicked at the prospect of the return of Sauron and was now force-feeding him all the necessary information via dreams to arm him with information, but was keeping certain things _(read: the connection with Mandos)_ secret from him.

He even knew that Mandos' wife Vairë had taught Sataressë the song of weaving, for Merlin's sake! Did Sataressë secretly love Mandos or something?

Something seemed to jackhammer against Harry's skull at the mere thought, and Harry had to struggle to keep pain off of his face over his bowl of soup. 'Alright alright, Sataressë, I'm sorry. Good griffins!'

How long would he have to put up with this madness?

The "catch-up" sessions were as solemn as usual, with Sataressë asking questions that Harry would have never thought of, and Legolas answering shortly, adding 'my lady' every other sentence without fail, annoying Harry to no end.

For the language lessons, Legolas had taken to poking fun at Harry's progress, or lack thereof, with Westron.

Harry blamed it on only having Legolas to practice with. Thranduil knew Westron as well, but he was 'Elvenking,' and Harry preferred to avoid speaking with Thranduil. The other elves not only didn't know how to speak Westron, but were too intimidated by him to even hold a conversation for more than a minute or so.

Harry also had given up on reminding elves not to call him 'my lady,' resigned to it as being another one of those unflattering nicknames given to him to someone like Draco Malfoy back at Hogwarts.

He and Legolas had taken up the activity of translation. Legolas would say something in Sindarin and Harry would attempt to replicate it in Westron, doing this whenever they were bored. Legolas found Harry's translations extremely amusing.

At one point, a pair of guards was rounding the corner when they saw their prince laugh out loud, an extreme show of emotion on the prince's part. Harry had to admit, seeing the guards' facial expressions were entertaining, even it was at his own expense. At least most didn't understand what Harry was saying.

This all changed when it switched to listening exercises, where Harry had to listen to the Westron and translate it back into Sindarin.

"_Try this one:_ We are headed toward Mirkwood."

Harry thought for a moment, thinking the sentence was extremely strange. _"Mirkwood starts to us."_ Elves nearby raised eyebrows at this sentence and Harry inwardly cursed. Lips twitching, Legolas gave him another one.

"_Now this: _Does everyone understand Westron?"

Harry paused; this would sound extremely weird as well. _"Westron sympathizes with everybody?"_

Harry could have sworn that he heard Thranduil snort but the king had a straight face when he turned to look at him.

…

After a few more weeks, Harry graduated to more advanced lessons. Now he and Legolas conversed in Westron whenever they were alone.

"Westron is no easy to talk."

"Westron is **not **easy to **speak**_._" Legolas corrected before saying slowly (purely for Harry's benefit), "If you want to go anywhere outside the borders of Mirkwood, fluency with Westron will be necessary."

It took Harry some time to process Legolas' reply and formulate his own reply. "Then I will must learn as quick as can."

Legolas looked at him, with a rather betrayed expression.

After the silence had gone on for too long, Harry asked in Sindarin, _"Well? Though I know it cannot have been perfect, I did not think it was completely unintelligible."_

Legolas gave a start. "_Oh, yes… I mean, no, it was not unintelligible. I merely – " _He sighed and cut off mid sentence, starting over. "_It is:_ then I will **have** **to** learn as **quickly **as **I** can. _Or_ –

…

It was the Elven equivalent of latter June (Harry had nearly gone stir crazy by this time, and he expected Legolas was at his breaking point as well) when there was news of somebody escaping past the Mirkwood guards out of prison.

That morning, Legolas' face looked grim, and he would not speak; so it was from Thranduil that Harry discovered that there had been an orc attack in the woods and a prisoner had escaped during battle.

Later, in the tome room where Legolas was pacing back and forth, Harry asked, _"Why are you so upset, mellon? It is not like the prisoner escaped on your watch."_

After a moment of silence, in which Harry almost gave up on getting an answer, Legolas confessed quietly, _"I feared something would happen to you, Niphredil, should the same thing happen again. It seems Mirkwood has not the force it once had."_

Harry had a bizarre urge to burst out in laughter, and had Legolas not been so serious, he would have. Nonetheless, amusement danced in his eyes as Harry drily replied in Westron, "I can defend myself, thank you."

"_With what? That messy sword work of yours?" _Harry fought the urge to grimace.

"_Or is it that elder branch you rely on?"_

Harry froze. After what felt like a century – Harry couldn't entirely be sure it wasn't – he turned to Legolas. _"What did you say?"_

Legolas' gaze was bleak. _"I realized from the day I first met you. You perform __**magic **__with that branch. 'Tis almost like a staff."_

Harry had long learnt that there were other wizards in this world. Dreamworld, Harry quickly reminded himself. In the past few 'months' he'd found himself slipping. He thought of his family less and less, and this dreamworld felt like reality more and more.

Distressed by the thought of forgetting his family and his home, Harry asked Legolas desperately, _"What would you have me tell you?"_

Grey-blue eyes met green earnestly. _"I ask only for the truth, Niphredil."_

Harry leapt up angrily. _"Truth? This 'truth' you speak of, I am barely learning of myself! I am stuck in a place full of perfect, beautiful strangers too afraid to speak to me; learning – and beginning to master, mind you – to speak a language I had never heard of before, not to mention receiving a crash course of over six millennia of historical events! Do you truly think this is what I wish for?"_ It was like an out of body experience; he must have been at his wits' end, Harry faintly thought while yelling at his only friend and sympathizer in the whole fortress. And the thing was, it wasn't Sataressë going bonkers; this was purely Harry, letting loose pent up frustrations on the only person who had been treating him halfway normally. It was like adolescence all over again.

It was only after Harry stormed out of the tome room and was halfway back to his own chambers that he came back to himself. But he had realized during his brief rant that he really _was_ discomfited by all the stiff perfection surrounding him. He _needed_ a bit of chaos in his life.

He needed to leave.

He knew enough Westron to be able to communicate without problems. He'd leave Mirkwood.

But what of Legolas?

Harry's heart strained at the thought of leaving the only friendly face he knew in this world. _Dream_world.

That was Harry's only consolation. This was all a dream.

…

Once Harry had made up his mind to leave, there were no other questions. As long as he had the Elder Wand, he didn't need to take much besides food. The Elder Wand, no matter how powerful, couldn't overhaul the five exceptions to Gamp's laws of transfiguration… Speaking of Gamp's laws, there was also the issue of currency.

He changed into the breeches and tunic he'd conjured on his first day in Mirkwood.

When his mind turned to rations, to his not-so-much surprise, he felt the invisibility cloak appear in his hands.

So it was an invisible Harry that headed down to the kitchens to steal some food.

He knew it wasn't anywhere near the proper way to treat his hosts by leaving without telling them much less stealing their food, but he knew that he and Sataressë were just about caught up to current events on Arda.

…

After barely finding his way out of the palace, Harry looked up to the foliage; and what he could tell, it was around mid-afternoon.

Harry's last conversation with Legolas left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he knew there was no going back now.

Harry headed west, intent on finding the Dúnedain, to whom his counterpart seemed so partial. To leave the forest before dark, he needed to be quick; for the first time, he sang the full song of fleet feet aloud, and felt the full effects as well.

He began to run, and sure, it was not as fast as apparating, but he could only do apparate if he envisioned – a brief vision of craggy rocks appeared and the familiar sensation of squeezing through a tube…

…before he stumbled upon those very rocks.

Disoriented, as it was the first time in months he'd apparated, Harry looked around. He felt a strange sense of déjà vu as he saw rocks, rocks, and great, more rocks.

Gritting his teeth, Harry audibly complained to his other self, "What was the bloody point of bringing me to the foot of a bloody mountain!?"

Remembering the finding spell, Harry muttered, "Point me, civilization." It promptly spun around and pointed to what Harry figured (from the sun's position) was south.

Wanting see if the civilization within any _remotely _reachable distance, Harry decided that an aerial point would be the best way to find out. Grumbling under his breath, Harry raised the Elder Wand, intending to transfigure his arms into wings, but thought better of it. Sure, it was a simpler form of transfiguration, but his body would be heavier, and on the offhand chance that there was indeed civilization nearby, he doubted they would take a flying humanoid very well.

An owl was out, considering the time of day; though Harry wasn't sure if owls existed in Arda, he thought it best not to chance it. So he drudged up memories of hawks and eagles and transformed into what resembled a bird of prey. There were no scientists here that would try and identify him as a new species.

As the final feather had formed, Harry did not panic when the Elder Wand disappeared; he knew it would come back when he needed it. Instead he took off with the pack of elven food in his claws, automatically circling like a bird of prey he was. He may not be an animagus, but the brain nevertheless changed to fit his physical form; luckily, Harry maintained the presence of mind to remember to look for signs of people.

Out of the much wider peripheral vision of his (presumably green, as he hadn't bothered to transfigure his eye color) eyes, Harry spotted moving black dots.

Bingo.

There were five black dots moving and slightly behind them was a mass of black, larger dots.

Curious, Harry circled lower, and found that the five were riders upon horses, while the others, more hideous in real life than they were in Sataressë's memories, were orcs on wargs. About fifty of them, chasing the five riders who were, needless to say, hopelessly outnumbered.

Recalling changes to the tune to only affect whom the song was intended to affect, Harry screeched out the song of fleet feet, hoping to dear Merlin that it would work in his animal form. The tiring horses and riders apparently recovered a bit at that, and pulled ahead and hopefully out of the orcs' sight.

Meanwhile, he transformed back into a human – or whatever he was – and sent silent hexes under the invisibility cloak toward random orcs that rapidly approached before he spotted the leader.

He could tell, not just because he was the biggest and ugliest one (and sat upon a warg of equal calibre), but from how the other orcs deferred to him and the way he commanded the orcs around him. A leader was a leader, no matter what race and what culture.

Well, cut off the head and the body, no matter how big, would be useless. In this case, the head was the leader, the body the company of fifty-some orcs.

So Harry used a particularly strong diffindo to sever the head of the commanding orc's head off.

It was so much easier to decapitate humanoid beings, Harry thought, shaking his head as he recalled the spider colony he'd fought on his fist day on Arda.

When their commander's head flew off and rolled onto the ground, after a moment of confusion, the orcs fell into utter chaos. Harry – or rather, Sataressë – knew enough of Black speech to discern the random screeches meant something equivalent to "friendly fire" in English or "assassination among the ranks," which immediately put the second-in-command under suspicion.

Amongst all the chaos, Harry chose various spells to shoot at targets on the edges, to pick away at unsuspecting orcs.

But even Harry, invisible as he was, could only do so much damage without going unnoticed.

"**Fools! It is an invisible enemy come to cast us into chaos!"** The second-in-command growled.

Harry having understood this, abandoned all pretense of going unnoticed and began shot out spells at high speed, using _reducto_, _diffindo_ and _sectumsempra_ whenever he could. He could not afford to stun these orcs and leave them alive.

He had realized from his dreams that sentient as they were, they had first spawned from the Avari elves, and would be better off dead than living wretched, miserable lives as the monsters they were.

A warg snapped dangerously close to Harry, and too late, he realized his perilous error.

"**If you cannot see him, **_**smell**_** him!"**

Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry sent a silent prayer to Ilúvatar before casting Fiendfyre at the orcs and running for his life in the direction the horses had gone.

With Nessa's song's effects still remaining, Harry was able to catch up with the horses. Glancing at the riders, Harry saw they were indeed men; they all sported rounded ears and dark hair and beards; their tans spoke of extended periods of time under the sun. They were, as Harry expected, warriors, armed with various weapons; all their dark, well-worn cloaks had a six-pointed star clasp.

The rider at the forefront slowed his horse down. As his companions followed suit, he said, "I do not think they are following us any longer."

The language he spoke was Westron, and Harry could not have been more grateful for all the time Legolas had devoted drilling the language into his skull.

Another agreed, "Indeed. The orcs were Hell-bent on pursuing us – what could have stopped them?"

Er, an unstoppable fire, maybe? But even Fiendfyre could only sustain itself for so long, and this was a rocky terrain with nothing to burn on. It would go out after all the orcs were gone.

Furrowing his brow, the man Harry presumed as the leader of the five pursed his lips. "No matter. That the orcs have been distracted is good fortune for us."

A more aggressive looking man stated, "For an orc company of that size, we must take them by surprise."

Well, they'd probably be burnt to a crisp by now.

A comparatively slight man armed with a bow protested, "We are hopelessly outnumbered. We need to contact the others to counter a number like that."

"Have you lost all the pride of being a ranger, Cyron? We hunt in stealth, and succeed, even at the cost of our lives. We need not seek reinforcements. One ranger is worth far more than ten orcs."

Another noted humorously, "Ah, but Celigrist, there are the wargs to contend with as well." He grinned cheekily at Celigrist, who scowled back at him.

The leader cut in sharply, "Enough. The orcs are not nearby for now, but we must stay on the move."

They rode for a while until they reached it was nightfall and they agreed to set up camp for the day. Which Harry appreciated, as the effects of Nessa's song had nearly gone.

The leader called softly, "Halbarad?"

The cheerful rider finished tying his horse and headed toward the leader, face growing serious.

"Aragorn."

The leader, apparently named Aragorn asked in a low voice, "While we fled from the orcs, did you suddenly feel strengthened?"

Halbarad slumped in relief. "You felt it as well? I worried I was the only one and losing my mind."

Harry, who had been sneaking around eavesdropping, grimaced. So they _had_ noticed the sudden spurt of energy. He thought that the effects would have been subtler, considering the terrible screeching with which he had performed the song.

While the Aragorn and Halbarad went to their other three companions to confirm if they had felt it also, they hesitantly confirmed, confessing they had thought that they'd been the only one.

Harry wanted to smack his forehead when the leader looked around suspiciously.

"It must have been by the Valar's blessing." Cyron said hopefully.

They took turns taking watch, and the next morning, Aragorn himself (sighing, Harry tailed him in the form of a strange conglomeration of bird of prey) stealthily went back to the scene of orcs. But upon seeing scorched rocks and a sea of orc skeletons, Aragorn stared, slack-jawed.

Abandoning all form of stealth, Aragorn rode back to his company, an orc skull in hand. Harry surreptitiously circled above Aragorn, far above enough that he knew that the pack he carried in his claws wouldn't be spotted by any human eye. And now that he knew that screeching the song was effective, he screeched a few lines of the song while he was at it. For himself; if he did it a second time for the riders, they would get even more suspicious.

When Aragorn told his companions what he had seen, it seemed like they only took his word for it because he was their leader.

"Are you completely sure, chief?"

"Whatever it was burned all of them, Feredir. No doubt about it. The wargs as well."

Though a few wanted to see the sight for themselves, Aragorn convinced them they had to move on, lest whatever had burnt the orcs and their wargs find them as well.

So they rode for over two weeks, and after switching between invisible racer and quasi-eagle-hawk bird, Harry began to finally lag behind. Harry only performed a few _aguamenti_ to quench his thirst and murmured Nessa's song from what should have been an undeniably inaudible distance, but the men were _still_ alert and suspicious.

Harry tried to rationalize that since they were warriors, being alert and suspicious was their natural state.

After nearly being shot at for food, Harry had deemed his bird form as dangerous to remain in around warrior-hunters and had taken to letting them get one day ahead and using the "point me, Aragorn" spell and being able to catch up as an owl by night. It was way easier than to silently run beside them. He could rest, eat, and sing his energy back freely, without having to actively practice that Merlin-cursed 'constant vigilance' (though it was still ingrained in him, in a way – he _was_ an Auror).

During these times of rest, he'd been practicing his letters in Westron. The form of writing completely escaped Harry. He would be eighty-six in a few weeks, for Valar's sake! Why on Arda did he need to learn a completely different language?

It was at times like these that Harry desperately missed Legolas. Legolas could help him. If only to learn how to write. But Harry could not deny he missed Legolas' company as well. He was a soothing presence, when he wasn't calling him 'my lady'.

One day, after using the "point me, Aragorn" spell, it was to Harry's frustration that he discovered Aragorn had split off from the others. The man, now a lone traveller, was even more alert, if possible. Harry considered a "point me Halbarad" spell, but something told him that Aragorn was headed to meet someone. Which hinted at civilization, something Harry had almost given up on after three weeks.

Harry knew that following his instincts had paid off when he saw a wooden sign with Westron etched into it. After staring at it for a while, Harry concluded that it read 'Bree'. That, or 'Bruu'. He had been magically increasing the elven rations that he'd brought, but he was somewhat sick of eating just bread and venison. He craved fruit and vegetables.

But that brought up the matter of currency.

Harry could not, in all good conscience, conjure counterfeit money. Besides, he didn't even know what it looked like. The Elder Wand would be able transfigure something tradable, for sure. Though he wasn't sure what was considered valuable here.

So a ways off from the supposed village called Bree (or Bruu; Harry decidedly disliked the feeling of illiteracy), Harry shed the invisibility cloak and traded it instead for a normal black cloak, pulling up the hood to conceal his features. Harry neither needed guidance nor wanted Aragorn's suspicions any longer, and therefore took care to take the long way round.

After walking at a normal pace, Harry finally arrived at a closed wooden gate by nightfall.

He called through in slightly accented Westron. "Excuse me?"

An eye slot opened and a man glared out.

"What's your business?"

Taken aback by the hostility, Harry stumbled over his Westron. "Just a travel…ler – " Why did he have to struggle with his Westron now, of all times? "…passing by. I need shelter. Would you let me in, please?"

After a pause, the gatekeeper on the other side said, "You won't get in until you lower that hood of yours."

Harry cursed inwardly. It hadn't occurred to him people would ask (nay, _demand_) him to reveal his face. So it was with great reluctance he lowered his hood.

He heard an audible gasp, and the gate creaked open. Brilliant. Just brilliant. Apparently his looks opened doors like 'Open Sesame' did.

After being gaped at for a good while, even Harry's patience wore thin and he asked, "So can I pass?"

Dumbly, the gatekeeper nodded and backed up to let Harry through. After a few paces, Harry turned back, having forgotten to ask something. "Er, I'm… travel_ling_." Harry was careful to keep the verb tense right. "But I… this is my first time here. Are there any places… to stay?" There was a word for it for establishments like motels and the like, and Harry wracked his brains to find it. "Inns! That's it. Are there any inns here?"

The gatekeeper seemed to find his voice, "There's the Prancing Pony, but it's not fit for – "

"What direction is it?" Harry interrupted.

Weakly, the gatekeeper motioned saying, "You'll see the sign if you keep walking in that direction, my lady."

As the gatekeeper was about to close the door, a hand firmly grasped it before it could close.

"Oh, you're back, Strider." The gatekeeper didn't sound too enthused. Curious, Harry looked back, and was surprised to see Aragorn holding the gate open. He was even more surprised when Aragorn addressed him, "You are headed toward the Prancing Pony, my lady?"

Harry had to keep from squirming like first year being caught in Hogsmeade; Harry was uncomfortable, and it wasn't so much that he was addressed as 'my lady' as being directly addressed by his unknowing guide for nearly a month. Yet despite the discomfort, Harry managed to look into Aragorn's grey eyes and answer, "…Yes." Hearing himself sound like a shy girl annoyed Harry and belatedly, he tacked on in a more demanding tone, "Why?"

Ignoring the blubbering gatekeeper and striding comfortably through the gates, Aragorn offered, _"As our destinations are the same, let us go together."_

"_Thank – " _Harry stopped and whirled around. "_You speak Sindarin! How – "_

"_Your accent resembles one of an elf new to the language. And I suggest you put your hood back on."_

Hastily, Harry jammed the hood back on.

_"'Tis not often I see an elf-maiden such as yourself travel around, I confess. What is your name?"_

_"Niphredil. And I am not an elf. I simply spent some time in Green – Mirkwood."_

_"I am Strider."_ After a pause in which Harry wondered why he didn't go by Aragorn, he continued._ "Mirkwood… Then you must know Legolas?"_

Harry sighed._ "…Yes."_

Aragorn seemed to notice a change in Harry's tone at the mention of Legolas, but did not question further, as they had arrived at the Prancing Pony. _"This is the inn – " _He saw Harry fumbling with something, _"Niphredil?"_

Harry, who had actually been trying to conjure something tradable, looked up guiltily. _"Ah, yes, Aragorn, go in ahead. I simply –_ "_  
_

Far from going in ahead, Aragorn lunged at Harry and caught his arm (the same place Thranduil had caught, in fact), looking quite frightening. "Who told you that name?"

Harry realized his slip of tongue too late and closed his eyes. How would he get out of this one?

* * *

A/N: Finally, the time skips! I was getting impatient. And no, Satar doen't love Mandos that way; she actually harbors a mega grudge against him now, if you missed that. Even though she knows he can't help his prophecies, she resents that he gave her false hope only to wake up in a completely identical body 6,000 years later. Not to mention she's had to catch up on everything she missed, as well as give Harry a crash course on the Arda she knew.

Thanks very much for reading and reviewing, favoriting, following and flaming, everybody!


	6. Of Truths and Teachings

**Essential Disclaimer: **I own neither the Tolkienverse nor the HP series.

**A/N:** Many readers have brought up the very valid question of the nature of the relationship between Harry and Satar besides the fact that they share a soul:

My philosophy is that a **spirit ≠ soul**.

**Soul** is more the _essence_ of a person. _Spirit_ is more like a mixture of their hearts &amp; minds.

So while Harry and Satar share a **soul**, they have different _spirits_, a consequence of vaaast difference in age (gender) and world. Now they're in Arda in Satar's form, Satar's spirit has reawoken. Resulting in two spirits sharing one body and soul.

I suppose I should extend my philosophy (for this fanfic) that souls have memories. So Harry would eventually remember his time in Arda, as Satar remembers his whole life. Yes, Satar has absorbed Harry's memories, but it does not remotely affect her (except make her angry at Mandos); if Harry's 85 years worth of memories are 85 kilobytes, then Satar's memories are trillions of terabytes.

I'm aware that this philosophy doesn't completely match Tolkien's whole _fëa _&amp;_ hröa_ idea, but it's fanfiction, and a unique situation to say the least.

Hope that clears up most of the questions!

* * *

**Back to the Beginning**

* * *

**Legolas**

The day Niphredil left

* * *

The creature Estel had captured had escaped.

Elves did not feel the cold, but the suspicion that the orc attack had been specifically staged to aid the escape of the creature Gollum chilled him to the core.

As of now, the woodland warriors of Mirkwood were on the lookout for him, searching every tree, every root, every knothole.

But he was not on the hunt.

There were several reasons for this: The first was because his father had said that he needed not waste energy better saved for something of more importance.

The second was of his own volition, concerning Niphredil. Though he was fairly sure she would not need his protection for most battles, but he had seen how her elder branch was most unsuited to short-range fighting.

She had managed to coax his worries out of him, as she was wont to do. And he'd seen the amusement in her green eyes as she scoffed at him in the language she'd become quite fluent in (under his tutelage). Though Legolas had intended to let her tell him in her own time, her undermining his worry had needled him and his knowledge of her sorcery had accidentally slipped his tongue.

After that revelation, she had gone through a whirlwind of emotions: most human-like. She had initially frozen, played dumb, then pled, and then finally gotten enraged.

He had only asked for the truth.

But he had asked the wrong personality at the wrong time. Nurundil had made it clear that she would tell him the whole story in _her_ own time. Niphredil had exploded, in hindsight, probably because she did not remember the whole truth, and she'd said as much.

Legolas was ashamed to admit that he'd given elves – particularly male ones – warning looks. He had known he was being overprotective; he had known he spent much more time with her than necessary; he had known of the rumors concerning the relationship between him and the "*Ainu clad in flesh".

_[*Ainu = singular for Ainur, Tolkien's version of angels, who sang the world into creation. The Valar all started out as Ainur.]_

Anything to keep outsiders from coming between him and Niphredil.

Thus guilt had stabbed at Legolas when "perfect, beautiful strangers too afraid to talk" came up in Niphredil's tirade.

After she had all but stormed from the tome room, Legolas had stood there shocked, for an undeterminable amount of time.

For a while after, a listless Legolas had foregone lunch, not feeling hungry. He wondered if this is was what fading felt like, then admonished himself. He was a healthy elf, and fading now, of all times, was unacceptable! Besides, this was only a spat.

When he'd finally gone to Niphredil's chambers to seek reconciliation, she hadn't answered the door. After calling her name a few times, Legolas cautiously opened the door.

There, he found only her robes draped over a chair; no other trace.

Niphredil was gone.

All of her teasing, laughter, humor… even her moodiness, was gone.

Unable to accept it at first, Legolas had gone everywhere to check. He'd asked every guard that came his way, every chamber maid. No trace.

There were traces of Gollum after his escape.

But after Niphredil vanished, no traces of her were to be found. (Save for the cooks scratching their heads, questioning the random disappearance of a single slice of bread and venison.)

Over dinner, Legolas said shortly to his father, "She has gone."

There was a long silence, unbroken until Thranduil was three-quarters into his venison. "You fell for her."

Legolas snapped his head up from his nearly untouched venison. "What?"

Without setting his fork down, or looking at his son, who was staring daggers at him, the king said lightly, "I warned you."

Legolas fought the growing urge to stab an eating utensil into the table. But he kept his voice even. "What are you talking about, Father?"

Thranduil merely raised an eyebrow at him. "It seems you are indeed my son in more than way._(1)_ Then again, as you informed me months past, according to the mannish saying, 'the apple does not fall far from the tree,' I should not be surprised." Folding his napkin, Thranduil stood up and said, "Come, Legolas. It seems it would be wiser to pull ahead of schedule." He nodded at a group of guards, who stood up as well.

Sweeping into the throne room, Thranduil stated, "The creature Gollum is being tracked as I speak. But we needs must send word to Imladris of his escape."

Turning his head to speak directly toward Legolas, Thranduil commanded, "As your king and father, I send you, Legolas, as ambassador of Mirkwood to inform Lord Elrond of this matter."

* * *

_(1) This can be construed in several ways. ;) Inspired by Williamsangel88._

* * *

**Chapter Six**

(nearly a month later) Of Truths and Teachings

* * *

Gritted teeth muffled Harry's grunt of pain as Aragorn tightened his hold on his arm.

"Who told you that name?" Aragorn demanded.

Unable to break free from Aragorn's grip, Harry had two choices: obliviate him, or tell him the truth.

Erasing the memory of his unwitting guide did not appeal to Harry, so he sighed and said as evenly as possible, "If you let go, we can talk this over like gentlemen in the… inn. Will you give me a chance to explain?"

After a moment, to Harry's surprise, Aragorn laughed and his grip loosened a bit. "You mean like 'civilized people'. Not like 'gentlemen'. Not many would describe me as 'gentle', and you, are a maiden."

Harry rolled his eyes. Yes. That was right. He was a female in this world. Just a minor glitch, he was sure.

Despite the slightly lighter atmosphere, Aragorn still kept a firm grip on Harry's arm as he looped the reigns of his horse to a wooden post and telling him gently to stay outside, while they entered the inn.

Aragorn paid a man he called Mr. Butterbur for a room and as soon as Harry saw that it was in minted coin he almost groaned. But Aragorn seemed to sense Harry's annoyance anyway.

"What's wrong?"

Harry turned to Butterbur and said, "Will a trade work?"

Mr. Butterbur frowned. "Trade? For a room? Depends on the item, miss…?"

Drawing his hood back and ignoring Butterbur's stifled gasp, Harry pulled out the emerald Legolas had pinned in his hair to keep his unruly bangs out of his face. "How long will this – ?" Harry's "keep me a room" were cut off as Aragorn's eyes widened at the sight of the gem and immediately closed Harry's fingers back over it.

"Nevermind, Mr. Butterbur. I will pay for her room as well." Aragorn hastily said.

So it was in one of their rooms that Harry sat like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, with Aragorn pacing in front of him like an agitated lion.

"Now. Explanations? You can use the language you are most comfortable with." Aragorn's face was pleasant enough, but there was underlying growl in his voice.

'Then _you_ wouldn't understand it.' Harry thought with grim good humor.

"I'll use Westron, just to practice." Harry smiled weakly. "Where to start…"

"Starting at the beginning would be wise."

Harry would start at the beginning of the dream, then. Leaving out some details. "Well, a few months back, Legolas rescued me from the big spiders in Mirkwood. My ears were hidden by my hair, and he thought I was an elf," Harry motioned vaguely to his face, "so he took me back to the palace. I knew Legolas' grandsire, and by default, Thranduil when he was an elfling," Harry refrained from snorting when he saw Aragorn's face expression. "So I stayed there, catching up on history – "

Aragorn interrupted, "What do you mean, 'catching up on history'?"

Harry attempted to phrase it as normally as possible. "I've been… sleeping… you could say, for over six millennia."

At this revelation, Aragorn looked stunned. Harry held back a snicker and continued, "So, I stayed for a few months at Mirkwood. I had a hard time adjusting from Adûnaic to Westron, let me tell you."

Nodding in understanding, Aragorn stated, "So that's why you have that accent."

Crossing his arms, Harry said defensively, "I learnt a whole new language in a few months! Can't you give me some credit?"

Aragorn bowed. "I meant no offense, Lady Niphredil."

Harry's eyes narrowed. _"Do __**not**__ add the prefix 'Lady' to my name!" _He snarled in Sindarin. _"What, does age dictate rank or something?" _

Hastily, Aragorn prompted Harry to restart the tale, "So, _Niphredil,_ how came you outside the woodlands?"

Still looking disgruntled, "Near the end of the sixth month of this year, a high-security prisoner escaped. Legolas acted odd the whole day, and I asked him what was wrong," Harry took a deep breath to calm his self.

Aragorn queried, "A high-security prisoner…?"

Harry huffed, "Yes, I overheard it was a golem or some other." He noted the suddenly deepened frown on Aragorn's face, and asked, "Is it dangerous?"

Aragorn resumed pacing, and Harry worried that the floor would wear down in that particular area. "'Tis nothing of import. Go on."

Troubled without quite knowing why, Harry slowly went on to say, "Well, Legolas told me he was _worried for me, _should the same thing happen again."

Pausing in his pacing and giving Harry a pointed once over, Aragorn, said pityingly, "Yes, I can see what he's worried about." When Harry shot him a dark look, he explained, "Look, Niphredil, I have no idea how long you have lived and how much you have seen, but after listening to you speak, it is plain that you are still rash and… not the most patient of people, like a… pardon the comparison, but quite like a young elfling."

Harry didn't have enough of Sataressë's memories to be offended, but by now he knew it wasn't a good thing to be called young in this world. "Well, after our argument, I, as you kindly pointed out,_ rashly _reasoned I had to leave. I'd resolved to find Elros' descendants, the Dúnadain – "

Aragorn froze.

Harry, not having been promoted to Head Auror for nothing, read Aragorn's body language and felt his shoulders sag. "…You're one of them, aren't you?" He'd first set out to find the Dúnadain, and they'd been literally, right in front of his nose. Harry wanted to kick himself.

Turning to Harry, Aragorn reminded him sharply, "We were discussing _you_, and how you know my name."

Harry closed his eyes in resignation. Aragorn was a dúnadan whom Sataressë wanted to help, so he'd have to earn his trust, and trust went both ways. He'd have to trust Aragorn, as Sataressë did. Sure, Aragorn came off as cranky, to say the least, not to mention just a tad untrusting, but Harry didn't think he was a bad man at all. Despite his words about not being a gentleman, beneath Aragorn's tough exterior was, in Harry's opinion, a genuinely good man. Alright. He'd take a leap of faith.

"Well, I left the woods and somehow landed myself at the foot of a mountain, leagues away from any civilization." No lies there. Just a very vague summary of events. "On my way to find civilization, I came upon a big group of orcs. I burnt them."

Seeing how Aragorn was about to interrupt him once more, Harry held up a hand. "I have proof, on a smaller scale." Harry summoned the Elder Wand. _'You'd better be right about this guy, Sataressë…'_ Harry thought. "This stick is…" He couldn't find the words in Westron to explain it. "…On second thought, it'll be simpler if I show you."

Harry pointed it at the fireplace and lit it with an _incendio_.

There was a tense silence before Aragorn asked, "Are you Arien clad in flesh?"

Huh? Arien? Oh, Arien, the fire-elemental Maia who drives the sun. "No. This stick – _wand_, we call it – can do many other things. For example…" Harry spied a jug of water beside the bed… he vanished the water and intentionally dropped the jug. Aragorn made a valiant effort to save it before it hit the ground, but he was too far away catch it in time.

"What are you playing at?" Despite his words, Aragorn sounded more puzzled than angry.

"_Reparo_." Harry flatly said. The pieces of the jug flew together again and Harry refilled it with a silent _aguamenti_. "_These are merely a few, menial things my magic is capable of._" Harry stated in Sindarin, as he didn't know the word for 'magic' in Westron.

After a long silence, Aragorn said, "Until now, I believed only five Istari walked on the face of middle earth. It seems I was mistaken." He turned back to Harry, "But your powers do not explain how you know the name 'Aragorn'."

"Hold your horses, I was getting there." While Aragorn's brow furrowed at Harry's form of expression, Harry transformed his left arm into a wing. "Here. Your friend Cyron tried to kill me for dinner one time."

The dialogue was broken by yet another stunned silence. "Not only an Istar but also a shapeshifter." Aragorn stated faintly, and Harry didn't bother to correct the stunned dúnedan.

It occurred to him it was odd to show a relative stranger more about himself than he'd ever shown Legolas. But Legolas had freely given his trust. Harry somehow knew he needed this dúnedan's trust, especially since he seemed to be a leader of sorts. It was never a good idea to trifle with a leader, who had underlings to command.

"So, that's most of the tale. I trailed after you guys, – not knowing you were Dúnedain – in hopes that you would lead me to civilization. And that's how I know your name. Why do you go by Strider here, by the way?"

"I've a few reasons, but suffice to say that my name, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, is not a name I want widely known."

Something niggled at the back Harry's mind before he sighed. "Oh, there was a Dúnedain chieftain in the past, also named Aragorn, son of Aravir. I should have connected the dots the moment I heard your name. I am sorry that I did not recognize your name earlier. Learning everything that happened in the past six some millennia is tiresome. It's like eating tomes whole."

Aragorn snorted. "Well, if you were to learn events from the past six millennia in the rather xenophobic Mirkwood, I assume it would have been rather… woody. Rivendell would have been a much better choice, considering their vast tome rooms."

"Rivendell?"

"'Tis the Westron name for Imladris."

Oh yeah, Imladris and Lothlórien, two other large elven settlings, besides Lindon. "You were raised there, I suppose?"

"Yes. Lord Elrond took me in until I was of age, and I still consider it my home."

Sataressë, who had a specific question, emerged as Harry obligingly retreated. "How is Elrond as of late?" Sataressë did Harry a small favor and spoke in Westron as well.

Aragorn opened his mouth, quite likely to ask how she knew Elrond, but sighed and raked a hand through his hair instead, as the answer came to him on its own. "You said you knew Elros as well, the twin of my Ada and my ancestor."

"I knew them both. You call Elrond your father. Fatherhood will have suited him quite well, I imagine." Aragorn bent his head in acknowledgement and Sataressë smiled, before becoming serious. "After spending eons with the _Doomsman of the Valar, _who knows all that was and is to be, I cannot help but have the feeling that though you consider Imladris your home, you are fated to find your place among a different people. Your _own_ people, the Dúnedain. You did not choose the mantle of leader, but you wear it well. How much better will you wear it then, when you choose it of your own will?"

Following that enigmatic rhetorical question, Sataressë closed her eyes.

Aragorn drew in a deep breath, as if he'd completely stopped breathing during Sataressë's last few, almost prophetic, sentences.

Harry opened his own eyes, and Aragorn promptly seemed to notice the difference.

"Pardon me, I'm a bit of two minds at the moment." Harry smiled weakly, feeling that he'd never uttered a truer statement.

"I can see that. Tell me, are you prone to break out into prophecy?"

Aragorn meant the question as a joke, but Harry took the question at face value and tried to answer as truthfully as he could. "Not to my memory, no, but my memories are incomplete, so you can't rely on my word. And that was not a prophecy. Just an… intuition."

Obviously, Harry had not had very good experiences with prophesies, and though he lived one, he still carried a heavy skepticism of them. He did, however, believe in good intuition. Good intuition was what had made his career as an auror, after all.

"Now, after explaining how I basically stalked a dúnedan all the way to civilization without even realizing his identity, I am hungry." Harry declared. He went to the door to go back down to dine, before realizing that he didn't have a means to pay. Thoughtfully, Harry looked down at the emerald, still in his hand.

"Ah, yes. I was going to ask about that."

Harry whirled around to look at Aragorn. "Are you talking about my hunger?"

Aragorn coughed oddly, as if he were almost hiding a laugh and Harry eyed him suspiciously. "Nay, I was speaking about the gem in your hand. Do you know what that is?"

Harry eyed the transparent green stone. "…An emerald…?"

Aragorn nodded patiently, "Yes, 'tis more commonly known as beryl, an elfstone, but who gave it to you?"

"Legolas used it to pin my bangs back. He was always rather irritated by the unruliness of my hair." Harry made a face. "But now that I'm no longer among the elves, my bangs will be good to hide my face."

Sighing, Aragorn said, "I cannot be sure, but seeing how its particular shade of color fits the description, I believe that beryl belonged to Legolas' mother."

Grimacing, Harry murmured, _"I had no idea."_ He closed his fingers over the gem. _ "Not to mention the discourtesy of pawning away what was given to you."_ Doubly so if it belonged to the giver's deceased mother. Having grown up as an orphan, Harry felt the belated pain acutely. _"Forgive me, I had forgotten etiquette in the discomposure that my lack of money caused in me."_

_"It is not my forgiveness you need, but rather the giver's." _

'For more things than one…' thought Harry, casting his thoughts back over three weeks ago, back to his explosion at Legolas. Slowly, Harry pulled back his bangs, and clipped the emerald back to keep them in place.

Briskly, Aragorn started, "I have enough money to feed the both of us for a few days – "

Harry interrupted, "No need, no need. Tell me, Arago – sorry, _Strider_ – what items are considered valuable?"

Aragorn looked taken aback. "You mean, besides gold and jewels?"

"Yes, those are obvious. But I can't conjure gold – there are limits to magic; and as for jewels, even I have a conscience." Harry deadpanned.

Bemused, Aragorn hedged, "Various tools and materials, I suppose. Steel for a smithy. Pots, pans, ingredients for a chef. Yarn for weaving… the like."

Harry crossed his arms. "Those are all too specific. Does anything else come to mind?"

"Weapons for a warrior?" Aragorn offered.

"Do you _see_ a group of warriors in want of weapons in this town?" At this rate, Harry had half a mind to conjure jewels, conscience be damned. "Anything _not_ for a specific trade?" Wait. "Do you think Mr. Butterbur needs help cleaning inn rooms?"

Glancing around at the less-than-pristine room, Aragorn shrugged. "They could be… cleaner, I suppose."

Harry shrugged. "Well, I'll make it cleaner." And he pointed the Elder Wand to particularly dirty corners and performed _scourgify _and afterwards, conjured several mops, buckets, and scrubbers.

In less than ten minutes, the room was squeaky clean.

Aragorn had watched this process, and his eyebrows nearly reached his hairline.

"…Yes. I do indeed think Mr. Butterbur would appreciate your assistance. Let us go downstairs to ask."

…

Mr. Butterbur had been absolutely delighted (Why, I haven't seen a room this clean in years!) and then Harry was allowed free food for as long as he could keep up the cleaning. Not wanting the title "cleaning lady" added to his list of monikers, Harry introduced himself as 'Holly' – Aragorn had told him that 'Niphredil' stuck out out too much.

Though he couldn't use it anymore, his old holly-phoenix-feather wand would still be a part of him, even if only as a name.

Niphredil, Sataressë, Nurundil, and now Holly. Harry was building up quite a list of names in this world as well.

Harry was caught between wanting to cast a muggle repelling charm on himself and changing his face to a plainer one – the latter would be harder to maintain and he would have to renew it every morning. But he saw so many beings who were just a meter tall and with pointed ears that he wasn't sure that the muggle repelling charm would work.

Facial glamour it was.

He wouldn't do anything to change his hair; Legolas had taken too much time and pains to tame it to its current state for him to ruin all of his friend's work. He added freckles – homage to the Weasley family… long nose, courtesy to Ron… thinner lips, "courtesy" to aunt Petunia…

He looked in the mirror and couldn't recognize himself.

Then again, that had been much the same for the past three months or so. Just when he was getting used to his reflection, he had to change it again. Harry shook his head.

Harry had no qualms confunding the gatekeeper and Mr. Butterbur for the change in his appearance – just to be sure. Aragorn had looked at Harry's eyes and immediately recognized him. Shaking his head, Aragorn said, "Is there anything you can't do, Niphredil?"

Harry's answer to the rhetorical question was short and curt. "Can't change my gender."

…

For the next few weeks, when people weren't around, Harry used magic to maintain the cleanliness (not to mention fixing the serious sanitation issues) of not only the rooms, but the entire inn itself. He knew his way around cleaning (a muggle headstart commandeered by Aunt Petunia) because Ginny had insisted that they take turns cleaning each week, after all. At the thought of Ginny, Harry felt a pang in his heart. He hadn't thought about her for at least a few weeks, and when she _did_ come up in his thoughts, it was just in passing? His wife of over half a century?

Harry sagged down on a newly cleaned chair, suddenly feeling miserable.

"Holly?"

Harry snapped out of his daze. "Oh, Strider. Any sign of him?"

Shaking his head, Aragorn wordlessly sat down at the table that now looked brand new, shiny mahogany and all.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Harry barked out a laugh. "You couldn't give me all three Silmaril for my thoughts."

"Such costly thoughts, yet I do not need but a look to see you are unhappy. Is that why you are so impatient for Gandalf to arrive?"

"I can't deny it." Harry admitted. "I've been in Bree for too long, and doing housework for this inn isn't helping me any."

Aragorn gave Harry a sidelong look. "What is it you wish to do, then?"

Shaking his head, Harry answered, "Learn? Travel? By this point, I would almost welcome orcs. I hope this Gandalf comes soon. He sounds wise and I could use some decent advice." The advice of Sataressë, _'to stay with this descendant of Elros and aid him'_ was way too vague. Besides, Harry didn't see _how_ he could help Aragorn when the man wouldn't tell him anything but the fact that a wizard was coming.

And Harry wasn't getting much sleep either. Granted, his form now didn't need it, but Harry still had a habit of _resting_ every night, but this was like his latter Hogwarts years all over again, with dreams filled with horrors and mass killings. Well, not so much mass killings as it was _warring. _Most of it against Morgoth and Sauron.

Harry knew it was Sataressë's way of warning him that war was coming, but did she really have to pepper him with terrible dreams night after night to tell him that? How soon was this war coming, anyhow?

Slamming his palms against the pristine mahogany table and standing up, Harry said in a matter-of-fact manner, "Well, I'd best find something to occupy myself with before I go do something rash and dangerous."

So it was a desperately bored Harry who went around looking for _something _to do. Passing stall after stall, Harry passed a smithy, and suddenly stopped at the sight of several rusted swords crammed into a corner, remembering Legolas' jab about his messy sword work.

It seemed that Harry had found that _something_ he'd been searching for.

Picking up a decent sized stick, Harry started towards the edge of the village. Once he got there, Harry transfigured the stick into a double-edged sword. Experimentally, he started swinging it around, before feeling foolish; he really didn't know _how_ to learn, much less _practice_, at all.

Aragorn was out tracking Gandalf, so he was out, but maybe he could get some tips from the smithy.

In about ten minutes, Harry returned to the smithy, with a sizable block of steel.

"Let's have a trade, good sir." Harry offered gallantly.

The smithy snorted. "Look girly, I don't know who told you I was a 'good sir' but why don't you go along and tell them to shove that sadly mistaken sentiment up where the sun don't shine."

Swallowing his indignation at being called a 'girly,' Harry merely pushed the metal forward. "Mister, do you or do you not know how to wield a sword?"

The smithy sneered up at Harry. "If I say I do, I suppose you'll want me teaching you? Well, I'm not sorry to say I don't. Now get out of here and take that scrap metal with you!"

Harry was furious, but he didn't want to give the crabby, if not downright _rude_ smithy the satisfaction of seeing it.

"Well, I'll just take this 'scrap metal' and be on my way. _Good sir._" Harry found a vindictive pleasure at seeing the man's face twist at being addressed so.

Aragorn found Harry staring intently at the lump of steel hours later.

"Holly, are you trying the melt that block of metal by staring at it?"

Harry grunted. "Any news?"

"Nay."

After a moment, Harry asked, "Strider, can you teach me the basics of sword work?"

Harry could feel Aragorn's eyes burning into the side of his head. "You are serious."

"As I ever will be."

"Can you not use…?" Aragorn knew better than to mention Harry's magic out loud, where any ears could hear.

Harry grimly shook his head. "It's disadvantageous in close combat. I need to be able to use a _weapon._"

A long moment of silence passed. "Well, I'll teach you when you forge that lump of metal," Aragorn nodded to said object, "into a proper sword."

Great. Harry Potter. Forging a sword. Griphook would laugh at him now.

Aragorn went upstairs, leaving Harry to stare at the lump of metal some more, with a sneaking suspicion that Aragorn had set a him a near impossible task just because he didn't want Harry to learn to wield a sword.

What would Hermione do in a situation like this? Well, she _wouldn't_ get into a situation like this… but if she did… she'd do all the research she could.

But there were no libraries in this Bree-prison. And what did Harry know about swords?

That one end was a great deal pointier than the other. They were made of metal, preferably steel.

In other words… not much.

…

_"Do not hold a grudge against Yavanna for how she calls you."_

_"I do not. It is a perfectly fitting name, for one who coaxed a living branch from a tree. Your wife is quite correct in calling me 'Death's Friend'."_

_Harry returned to humming a tune that sharpened the blade in his hands. Pausing, Harry admitted, __"I was surprised she did not call me 'Thief of Lives' or of the ilk."_

_The bearded man let out a booming laugh. "That would have been quite cruel of her. But now," he turned sharp eyes to Harry's creation, "show me what you've forged so far." Harry felt his heart sinking when the man tsked as he examined the length, width and plucked a hair to test the point of the blade. Though the hair split, he shook his head. "Satar, making a weapon sharper does not necessarily make it more effective. You must take all of the blade – it's length, width, thickness, and wielder into consideration." He balanced the sword that Harry had sang into creation with an index finger, and it promptly tilted in favor of the blade. "Your creation is not balanced with its proportions. Remake it."_

_So Harry sang a song of heat to melt the metal within his very hands before singing a tune to reshape it to fit Aulë's standards._

_…_

Harry woke groggily from the dream. Despite it being one of the first dreams not involving war in two months, Harry still felt tired. And somehow even looked it, as he enchanted his face to make him look like 'Holly'. So asking a tree to give up its branch was what earned Sataressë the moniker 'Nurundil'? Valar… Harry shook his head at the absurdity. But Sataressë apparently had not minded being called Nurundil as much back then. What could have changed so drastically?

Unable to come up with an answer, Harry's thoughts turned to the contents of the dream: Aulë had taught him something. Or Sataressë had taught him something. Whatever. Harry had long given up thinking himself as the same entity as what he'd first assumed was his 'dream-self'. He'd learnt the song of fire long ago, and though fire was something he could use the Elder Wand for… it somehow seemed right that Harry should _sing_ it. So Harry took the block of steel that he'd conjured the day before, and apparated from his room to the edge of the village.

First, tentatively, Harry hummed out the stanzas of the song of heat, and he felt the steel heat up and soften, but not burn his hands. Gaining confidence, Harry sang the song, and like in the dream, the steel melted in his hands. Recalling the song of shaping, Harry set to work upon the sword.

Harry stabbed the naked steel in the ground in front of Aragorn.

"I've made the sword, Strider. Now teach me."

Aragorn easily pulled the sword from the ground, took one look at it, and handed it back to Harry. "It is not the right length for you." He unsheathed his own sword and held it along his armspan. The sword extended about an arm and to his chest. "I said to make it into a _proper_ sword." He tossed the sword at Harry, who caught it by its hilt only due to his reflexes and barely reacted in time to Aragorn's sword swing, which shattered the sword he had made. "Not a weak imitation of one."

…

_Aulë took the sword from Harry and snapped it easily in two with a single hand, as one would a twig. "Yours looked like a sword even at the beginning." He dropped the two pieces to the ground. "A true sword does not look like one from the start. Remake it."_

_Harry sang the song of heat, and crumpled the pieces of sword into a ball and began to stretch it out with the song of shaping. _

_…_

Just like in his dream, Harry started with a stump of metal, and worked everything he'd learned from his dream into singing his sword into shape.

But once again, Aragorn broke his sword. "Come back when you have a proper, _strong_ sword, Holly."_  
_

_…_

_Harry was still singing away at the sword when Aulë's hands took it away from him. "You know…" He _brought down the sword on his knee and broke it. _"'Tis still a weak weapon."___

___But Harry noted the difference in manner with which Aulë broke his sword. "'Twas strong enough that you could not break it single-handedly."___

___Aulë grinned at him. "'Tis also true." He dropped the two pieces of the sword to the floor. "But 'twas still weak enough to break. ___Where there is fire, there is water. ___Remake it."___

___…___

Harry was unable to figure out what Aulë meant by his second to last sentence. "Think, think… You've seen enough medieval pictures to see how…" Harry slumped. Of course. Right after the characters hammered the sword into shape, they immediately dunked it in water, where it steamed and hissed.

Keeping this in mind, Harry sang the sword into shape, making sure to summon water with a hummed note after every time he stretched the metal.

Harry took his sword to Aragorn, convinced that it would work this time. "Is this blade _proper_ enough for you?"

"We'll test it out."

This time, Harry's sword was only cleaved into two. Simultaneously disappointed but heartened, Harry looked at the half of the sword his right hand held. "I'm going to try again." He promised Aragorn.

___…___

_"I admire your tenacity."_

_Once more, Aulë pulled the sword from Harry's grip. _

_"I am honored."_

_Aulë tossed up Harry's sword and pulled out an axe out of nowhere and sliced through it like butter. "But if you do not fold steel, no matter how much you work on it, it will be for naught in battle." _

_Patiently, Harry gathered up the pieces of steel and sang again, to melt them, making sure to switch melodies to fold them, heat them, cool them, fold, heat, cool, over and over again, until he lost count of how many times he had sat there, repeating the procedure… finally, he changed the melody… _

_…_

Finally, Harry looked down at a sword, magically forged by his own hands. He knew this was it. This was the sword.

He went to Aragorn and simply gripped it with two hands. Reading Harry's expression, Aragorn drew his own sword from its sheath and struck at Harry, who immediately countered it, albeit sloppily. But even the messy counter put a crack in Aragorn's sword, whose eyes widened upon seeing the crack.

Abruptly, Aragorn sheathed his cracked sword and stepped toward Harry. "May I see the sword you have forged?"

Somewhat reluctantly, Harry handed his sword over to Aragorn, who examined it with awe. "How was this sword made?"

"I sang it into creation." Harry replied.

"Sang it into creation?" Aragorn repeated faintly.

"Mind you, I took all the proper steps, like stretching and folding steel, even putting it in water after each change. I just didn't have a forge to work with." Harry frowned. "I can perform other magics, what is so strange about singing magic?"

"…You are an ainu who aided the Valar in the creation of the world." Aragorn stated, stunned.

"Yes. I told you, I don't even remember my age." Harry half-lied. He knew perfectly well that he had turned eighty-six the day he started all this sword forging business. But in this world, Sataressë's age was his age, and he had no idea how old Sataressë was.

"Whose companion were you?" Aragorn asked.

Harry closed his eyes. It had come to this. Why was Aragorn asking him this, anyway? Sataressë had practically confessed it herself when she mentioned the 'Doomsman of the Valar' in her pseudo-prophecy. But he might buy Aragorn's distrust if he did not answer.

"I was the _satar_ of Mandos." Harry said with extreme reluctance. "What business is it of yours, anyway?"

"The satar of Mandos…" Aragorn closed his eyes. "I see. It was said that any mercy that Mandos had upon souls disappeared some six millennia ago. So you were the source of his restraint."

Upon hearing this, Harry felt extremely uncomfortable. His job was to resent death, which was all Mandos represented. Not feel guilty, like he had abandoned a companion. So he just switched the subject back to the original one.

"Mercy of Mandos or not, I seem to recall you promising to teach me how to wield a sword, if I brought you a _proper, strong_ sword." He motioned towards the sword the Aragorn still held reverently. "Is that proper enough for you?"

* * *

**A/N #2:** More on the spirit and soul: when they say, "Ya got spirit, kid," compared to when they say "Ya got soul, kid," the word _soul_ seems to carry a weightier compliment? Not implying that spirit is any less important; it just carries a different meaning.

On a slightly different thread pertaining to the same string of yarn, music can be spirited, but then, it can also be soulful. But that's going into connotations and etymology…


	7. Of Attacks and Apparating

**Requisite Disclaimer:** My surname starts with an S. Sandwiched neatly between the 'R' of Rowling and 'T' for Tolkien. So no, I don't own either universe.

**A/N: **All I'm working off of is a timeline of Arda; pardon me if I get things incorrect.

* * *

**Back to the Beginning**

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Of Attacks and Apparating

* * *

Aragorn had confiscated the sword that Harry had sweat blood and tears to forge.

"If you cannot even hold a sword properly, you have no right wielding one such as this."

"But I'm the one who made it!" Harry had protested, to no avail.

Sternly, the dúnadan said, "I want you to promise me, Holly, that until I teach you how to hold a sword, that you won't lay a finger on this one. This sword put a crack in a sword that has served me faithfully for decades… 'tis a deadly weapon. In the hands of one inexperienced, it will be dangerous to even the user."

Harry had worked himself halfway into a wretched sulk – he'd _made_ that sword, curse it – but Aragorn had a point.

"…I promise." Harry's voice held no little resentment.

The descendant of Elros nodded, apparently satisfied, even when he was on the receiving end of Harry's glare. "Good. "

"When will you teach me to hold a sword?"

With a hint of a smirk, Aragorn replied, "Not today. You need to get down the basics of footwork first."

So now Harry was bored. He had been repeating the same pattern of moves over and over again.

"Your footwork is getting sloppy."

Harry looked down and saw his right foot had slipped outside of the line drawn by Aragorn. Aligning his foot into place, Harry commented, "These steps feel a bit… long."

"Worry not, I have adjusted the length of the steps to your height. And you are tall for a maiden."

After another step, Aragorn called out, "Your shoulder should not be aligned with your feet, but your hips. Align them with your feet," Aragorn pushed Harry slightly in the shoulder, and Harry's arms pinwheeled to keep himself from falling, "and you'll have trouble keeping balance."

Harry turned his shoulders to align them with his hips and immediately his stance felt more solid.

He took another step and Aragorn corrected him yet again, "The front foot should point straight forward, but the back foot should point to slightly to the side. And always shoulder-width apart, at the least."

Aragorn insisted on working step by step. Harry's physique lacked nothing, except for masculinity (which Harry missed more than Aragorn could ever guess), so they could skip the endurance training, but once Aragorn made up his mind to teach something, he certainly didn't do it by halves.

Thus, Harry was learning footwork first.

So footwork was all Harry learnt and practiced that day.

It was like taking McGonagall's classes all over again.

A few agonizing days (and nights, because for some reason, Sataressë felt the need to give Harry insomnia) of practicing the same footwork for hours on end (Harry couldn't decide which was more mind-numbing, cleaning that tavern-like excuse of an inn or practicing footwork) Aragorn had finally either taken pity on him or decided he was good enough to add on… more footwork. But in different patterns.

Joy.

Halfway into the second day of the added footwork, Harry had realized that the 'new' patterns were simply the same of the first set, just remixed.

Sneaky, sneaky Aragorn.

So Harry decided to be sneaky right back. At the nights, courtesy of the insomnia induced by Sataressë, Harry practiced different mixtures of footwork. By the end of the week, Harry surprised Aragorn by showing him whole cabinets of different cocktails of footwork he had been working on.

Harry smirked. "How much more footwork do I have to learn?"

Sighing, Aragorn said, "You catch on quick. I can't believe you have such good muscle memory."

Harry shrugged, "Hey, I spent basically all my time on those. I practiced footwork while cleaning, too."

Shooting Harry a dry look, Aragorn said, "Alright, I'll teach you how to hold a weapon. Wait here."

Harry waited expectantly, almost salivating at the thought of holding his sword again. Imagine his disappointment when Aragorn returned with two sticks and held one out to him.

"What's this?" Harry very nearly snarled.

"What do you mean, 'what's this'?" Aragorn innocently asked back. "These are weapons, of course."

"They're sticks."

"Anything that can cause harm is a weapon."

Harry supposed it would not do to take and shove the stick up his temporary instructor's behind, but he snatched the stick out of Aragorn's hand to show his disapproval anyways.

Using the stick, Aragorn showed Harry how to hold a sword properly.

"Do not swing the weapon for now. First get used to holding it. And a sword will be a lot heavier." Aragorn said, watching with amusement as Harry tested out his footwork while holding the "sword".

"Well, we wouldn't have to worry about that, had I my real sword…" Harry shot Aragorn a nasty look, "But," the Elder Wand appeared in a hand, "I can handle the weight."

Raising his eyebrows, Aragorn acknowledged the source of Harry's confidence. "Ah. Indeed. I trust that you remember the weight of the sword?"

Tapping his stick to make it heavier, Harry stopped it when it reached approximately the same weight as what he remembered his sword was. And, he had to admit that doing footwork with a sword that heavy would have been a lot more difficult. Struggling to keep the strain of holding the stick with only one hand from showing on his face, Harry casually held it out for Aragorn to take.

"Is this about right?"

Aragorn took the stick and nearly dropped it, not expecting a mere piece of wood to be that heavy. But he had excellent reflexes and balanced himself just in time. Hefting the stick, he cocked his head and said, "Yes, just about." After examining the stick thoughtfully, Aragorn gave a sideways glance to Harry.

"I wasn't going to ask this of you, Holly, but – "

Harry reluctantly picked up something he had hidden under the silvery folds of his invisibility cloak. "I wasn't going to give this to you until you gave me my sword back, but it seems you go around in dangerous situations."

He held out a sheathed sword, the sheath plain leather and bronze but for a white tree sewn onto it. Harry knew from his history cramming with Legolas that the white tree was a legacy for Númenórean kings.

"How did you know – ?"

Harry shrugged. "I didn't, but I figured since I put a crack in your sword, it was only fair I make you a new one. When I wasn't busy practicing my footwork, I worked on this. I put a few spells on it, like an unbreakable charm and one where you can't lose it: you've only to whisper a word on the blade, and the sword will key to the word; if you lose the sword or it's in an unreachable place, say the keyword and it'll come to you. Hurry up and take it. My arm's starting to ache." That was a lie, of course, Harry never ached anymore, but he could still feel the weight.

Hesitantly, Aragorn took the sword. He unsheathed it part way and stared at the shining blade. "I hope it fits you." Harry said with a tint of anxiousness. Slowly, reverently, Aragorn finished pulling the sword out and Harry was relieved to see that it was perfect for the intended wielder's build. Rather nervous, Harry began to babble, "It's only my fifth try at making a sword, so you can just use it as a temporary sword until the elves – " He was interrupted by a whisper.

"Thank you." Aragorn looked straight at Harry. "'Tis a beautiful blade, Niphredil."

Touched that Aragorn had called him by his elven name, Harry smiled. "Though, the sheath and hilt are temporary. You can have them redone by a professional, but I warn you the smithy in this town is quite unpleasant."

"I might replace the hilt." Aragorn joked. "The sheath, however…" Sheathing the sword once more, Aragorn ran his fingers over the white tree emblem. "…Will be used to house *_Amdirsil_ for as long as it will serve me."

"You dub your sword Shining Hope? But _amdir_ is only used when there is a certain reason in mind." Harry was curious. "What is yours?"

Aragorn smiled. "For a better future."

_[*Amdirsil: Amdir = hope, Sil = shining. Estel also = hope, but 'amdir' is hope based on a reason.]_

…

What Aragorn did during the day – sometimes he was gone for several – Harry did not know, and he was sure that he would not be given an answer even if he asked. It could not possibly take the lion's share of the day to look for signs of someone coming. But every time he came back, he was grimier and filthier.

One time, Aragorn came back in such a muddy state it even tested Harry's patience (who did he think was cleaning after him!?) and Harry basically _scourgify_-ed and _aguamenti_-ed Aragorn until he (most unwillingly) slouched off to take a bath. And then took so long that Harry briefly feared that he'd drowned in the bathtub.

"If you like rolling around all day in the mud, I don't care. But at least have some sense to _wash _yourself. You're a nuisance to us all!" Harry snarled. Aragorn shook his head, chuckling.

For the rest of August and throughout September, Harry took pains to learn and improve his swordsmanship.

Harry slowly (or rather hastily, in Aragorn's opinion) increased the weight of the practice-stick; but when he was able to remain comfortable with his footwork, Aragorn started to allow Harry to swing the stick. At this point, Harry just wanted to move _anything _with his arms, the fact that it was a stick and not his sword, didn't matter.

So excited that he was finally able to move something with his arms, Harry twirled the stick in a manner he'd seen those fake magicians twirl their batons and promptly hit his head with it. That immediately curbed Harry's excitement a bit.

Throughout the first two weeks of September, Harry fruitlessly beat the splinters off of an _engorgio_-ed wooden post that he'd made, with movements that Aragorn had shown him, and finally, in the middle of the third week, Aragorn finally deemed Harry at the level where he couldn't improve much more unless he sparred with someone.

So after he returned from searching for nonexistent signs of Gandalf, and whatever else he was gallivanting around doing, he returned Harry's sword and sparred with Harry.

Over the two weeks Harry had spent beating the _engorgio-_ed piece of wood with a weighted stick, Harry's wild swings had begun to refine themselves into calculated swings, and even though it took Aragorn less than thirty seconds to disarm Harry, the dúnadan was mildly impressed.

They sat in a dark (but clean) corner of the inn's common room. "You know, Holly, I honestly didn't believe you would get this far." Aragorn confessed.

Tipping the tankard forward and allowing the mead to rush down his throat, Harry swallowed and asked, "You mean swordplay?"

Aragorn too, took a swig of mead. "Aye. I thought it was a passing fancy."

Letting out a most unmaidenly snort, Harry returned, "I'm sorry to say that once I set my mind on a goal, I don't stop until I fulfill it." And it was true. Even though it was based on an impostor's suggestion, he'd set his mind on becoming an auror his fourth year, and he'd climbed up all the way to becoming Head Auror.

"As you are now, I think you could spar with a normal soldier and put up a good fight."

Equal parts astonished and pleased, Harry raised his tankard. "To something I never thought would happen: a compliment from Strider himself!"

Smiling wryly, Aragorn tapped his own tankard to Harry's. "Yes, to my rare conveyances of approval."

After taking another deep swig of mead, Harry asked Aragorn, "What keeps you in Bree?" The corners of Aragorn's mouth tightened. "If you're waiting for that Istar Gandalf, I'm afraid to say you'll have to pick one of two choices as a reason for his extreme tardiness: it's slipped his mind, or he's in no condition to come."

Harry's head began to pulse; that was strange. He didn't think this form could get drunk. Trying to ignore the pulsing, Harry continued, "Are all wizards on Middle-Earth this unreliable?" He indignantly thought that if that were the case, they were giving all wizards a bad name. If this Gandalf were a Hogwarts student, Snape or McGonagall rest their souls, would've long taken away all his house points and given him a pile of detentions as high as the pile of paperwork that was specially reserved for Head Auror. Harry noticed that both his and Aragorn's tankards were running low and magically refilled them, and someone burst into song, many other voices joining in. Though the song was merry, it did not help his headache.

Saluting Harry with his once again full tankard, Aragorn smirked, "Well, you can count on Gandalf being late, and then insist that a wizard always comes right on time…" His countenance darkened. "And do not speak to me of Saruman."

As the pulsing increased to a pounding, Harry said in a strained voice, "Strider, I do not _know_ Saruman. I don't _know_ Gandalf; I have never even _met_ any Istari. Spare me your ire."

Aragorn opened his mouth, presumably to apologize, when at that precise moment, four little men or 'hobbits' entered the Prancing Pony drenched to the bone. Sataressë had first been quite fascinated by these barefooted little beings around a meter tall, as they had not existed during her time in Arda. Harry had a coworker named Nob, an odd miniature man as well. Not wanting to be rude, Harry had asked Aragorn later what race the bare-footed mini-man was; Aragorn amusedly explained that they were called 'halflings' and referred to themselves as 'hobbits'.

This group was different, and not only by race. There was a darkly alluring energy lurking within the group of otherwise innocent-looking hobbits.

" – Underhill."

Harry's green eyes met the clear blue eyes of the one who looked the calmest, possibly the unofficial leader of the group. The moment their eyes met, the pounding became a jackhammering and Harry let out a strangled sound and clutched his head, immediately breaking eye contact with the hobbit.

Correction: alluring energy to Sataressë; repulsive energy to Harry.

Aragorn, who had also been busy staring intently at the halflings heard Harry's groan and was alarmed. "Holly? Holly, are you alright?"

Harry waved him aside. He'd gone long enough without a mother hen, he didn't need one now.

The four hobbits disappeared after Mr. Butterbur and Harry felt the pounding lessen.

"I feel… off color, so you'll have to excuse me." Harry grimaced. "I'll turn in for the night."

So Harry left an extremely worried-looking Aragorn in the corner.

…

That night was Harry's most fitful dream yet. It wasn't of Sataressë's memories; the memories were his own. Of Dementors.

All around him, gliding past him, through him, the gaping hole from where they 'kissed' their victims all too visible to Harry.

With a gasp of air, Harry awoke and almost tumbled out of the bed. As it was, he felt cold, as if it were the aftereffects of his memories.

Harry quickly got dressed, dreading the day to come. These days, he and Sataressë were more in sync with each other, and Harry knew that this would be his last day in Bree.

But this dread was mixed with excitement. Now that he was _somewhat_ familiar with a blade, he'd be able to explore Middle-Earth. Escape this Bree-prison.

With his sword on his hip and invisibility cloak over an arm Harry strode over to the room Aragorn stayed. Knocking at the door, Harry called, "Strider?" There was no answer. Frowning, Harry tried again. "Strider?"

"You won't find Strider here, Hol – I'm sorry, I mistook you for a coworker of mine, miss…?" Nob looked genuinely confused and awed.

Harry inwardly cursed, he'd neglected to put on his 'Holly' face that morning. "Nevermind my name, where'd Strider go?"

At this Nob suddenly looked scared but defiant. "I – I won't tell you where he and the hobbits went!"

"Oh, bother you!" Though Harry had gotten some information out of the rather dim-witted halfling, he was disgruntled that Aragorn had left him. Harry had the presence of mind to confund Nob before disapparating with a crack.

Having apparated to the edge of Bree, Harry whispered, "Point me, Aragorn."

Immediately the Elder Wand spun and pointed east, considering the direction of the sun.

Tsking, Harry grumbled, "You of all people, Strider… no, _Aragorn_… should know better than to think that you could leave me behind in Bree, in _Prancing-Pony_-_prison_…"

Slipping on the invisibility cloak, Harry followed Aragorn eastward.

With the advantage the song of fleet feet, Harry travelled rapidly through the woods, stopping every once in a while to make sure he was following Aragorn properly. Then Harry caught sight of them. Aragorn and four halflings.

The group that had given Harry a splitting headache.

The splitting headache had gone, but Sataressë's curiosity hadn't. What did the dark-haired halfling possess to make them react like that? But Harry didn't really want to know, and to his surprise, Sataressë respected that.

Harry began to catalogue his stalking of Aragorn and the halflings.

**– Traveling** through a forest for a few days? Quite pleasant. Though Harry got hungry; in his hurry to track down Aragorn, he'd forgotten to pack food. Harry traveled back half a kilometer. He needed to stay away from the delicious smells that wafted over to him from the group.

**– Wading** through a most unpleasant marsh… Bearable. Harry saw the marsh coming from kilometers away and performed a bug repelling charm on the spot; he had no desire to be eaten alive by bugs. He would not do the same for the people he trailed: the halflings to keep their suspicions down, and Aragorn out of pure spite. Sure, he and Aragorn weren't best mates or anything, but he'd spent nearly two months with the bloke! The least he could do was inform him that he'd be leaving Bree!

**– Hiking** **up** a mountain to discover runes that Gandalf had left? Ominous.

**– Creeping** **away** from the enemy? Cowardly, but wise, as Harry didn't know what powers the enemy had.

**– Listening** to Aragorn singing a rough rendition of Elven history? Enlightening, as Harry saw a side to Aragorn that he'd never seen before. But of all stories, why Beren and Lúthien? Not _all_ Middle-Earth stories were sad. Or were the happy ones (there were plenty, according to Sataressë) not deemed worthy enough of song?

**– Listening** in to the enemy's abilities? Most useful. They sounded an awful lot like dementors. On horseback. Perhaps that had been why he'd been plagued with nightmares of dementors that night. The sun, or any light, really, would be their weakness.

Harry let the group go ahead; he needed to help Aragorn, and by extension, helping these halflings.

His keen eyes spotted three of the enemy almost immediately. Having been Head Auror for decades now, Harry knew that with such semi-sentient beings with no emotions nor ability to repent of their actions, offense was the best defense. He could try, at least, to buy Aragorn and the halflings time until the sun rose..

Apparating behind the enemy, Harry closed his eyes. This was a dangerous tactic, but he'd learned how to control it in his early auror days. Summoning up the darkest memories he had, he drew the enemy's attention. The black horse, who couldn't see him, was less sure, but the rider was lured by these dark memories, of Cedric, Sirius, Fred, being killed, staring numbly down at the dead bodies of Tonks and Remus, the despair he'd felt when Snape had killed Dumbledore before his very eyes, the horror at the return of the dark lord… but just as two riders were about within range, he thought of the day that Lily had been born and cried out, "_Expecto Patronum!_"

A bright silver doe (!? But he could panic about that later) burst out from the end of the Elder Wand, causing the black horses to flee in panic. Good, it had worked. It seemed they were of the same kind as dementors.

But back to cataloguing.

**– Rushing **to catch up but finding Aragorn had been separated from the halflings. Stressful. Aragorn was fully able to defend himself. He had to find the halflings. "Point me, Frodo!" Harry frantically whispered.

**– Catching up** just in time to see Frodo slipping a ring on and becoming invisible and getting stabbed by the remaining three Riders? _Most unhelpful. _

**– Seeing** Aragorn catch up as well, and swing around a piece of wood with fire on it? Fine. But he had a much better way. He thought of the impromptu jungle gym in Mirkwood, and the days spent laughing with Legolas. _"Expecto Patronum!"_ Again, a doe(!?) shot out and charged toward all three of the shadowy black riders, whose horses reared at the light and turned tail, disappearing.

Having given up all pretense of stealth, Harry whipped off his invisibility cloak as Aragorn knelt over Frodo and diagnosed it as a wound poisoned from a Morgul Blade.

At the two words, 'Morgul blade,' everything clicked into place; the riders were the nine ringwraiths, the _Nazgûl_. The nine who had once been kings, but had succumbed to their rings that Sauron had made and were now under his control. Aragorn had been waiting for Frodo all along, for the halfling bore the _One Ring. _Aragorn was on a mission to rid Arda of the wretched thing.

If not treated, Frodo too, would turn into a wraith. Aragorn nearly jumped in surprise upon seeing Harry appear out of nowhere.

"Where did you come from?"

"If you want to save Frodo, answer my question first: where on Arda are you lot headed?" Harry demanded.

"Rivendell."

Just barely refraining from swearing, Harry instead settled for letting out a frustrated grunt. Neither he nor Sataressë had an image of that Elven outpost, as it was created after Sataressë had presumably left Arda. "That's where Elrond is, isn't it? Frodo can be healed there?" At Aragorn's nod, Harry decided to take a chance. "Aragorn. Do you trust me?"

The million galleon question.

After staring at Harry for a long time – with Frodo bleeding out each precious passing second – Aragorn nodded a third time; jerky, but a nod nonetheless.

"Good. Close your eyes and picture Rivendell in your mind." Aragorn closed his eyes. "Do you have it?" Aragorn nodded. "_Legilimens_." Harry had never been one for legilimency, but this case was dire. So he looked into Aragorn's mind, and immediately saw what he recognized as an Elvish outpost. Quite different from Mirkwood, as it was very bright, but there was the same ethereal atmosphere.

This had better work.

"Alright." Aragorn opened his eyes. "I'm going to transport Frodo with me, to Rivendell. Do you follow what I'm saying?"

Judging from the bewildered look on his face, Aragorn did _not_ follow. "How?"

"There's no time to explain. I _will_ come back. Just know that Frodo will be in care of the elves."

And with a crack, Harry disappeared with Frodo in his arms, leaving an astonished Aragorn and halflings.

With another crack, Harry stumbled into the very picture he'd seen in Aragorn's mind. A white circular place, with white marble stairs leading upward…except there were no elves.

Harry looked around at the almost sterile place. _"He is hurt! Help!" _He cried out in Sindarin.

All at once, elves poured out from everywhere, looking at Harry and Frodo, torn between wonder and horror at the beautiful stranger holding a bleeding halfling.

Sataressë took over._ "What are you all staring at? Hurry and get Elrond, or a healer."__  
_

Harry had never thought that elves and chaos could go together, but apparently a random stranger appearing out of nowhere with an injured halfling made even the impossible possible.

_"What is going on here?"_

Sataressë apparently recognized the voice and Harry turned in its direction. _"Glorfindel! This halfling, he has been impaled by a Morgul blade. "_

A male elf with long golden hair – apparently named Glorfindel – stood there, staring at Harry. _"…Satar…essë? But it cannot be, you were not – "_

_"Did you not hear the words, 'Morgul blade' in my sentence?" _Sataressë demanded. Having had enough of the elves' inaction, Sataressë sang a song that Harry had never heard before. A song that commanded respect and healthy amount of fear, and all fell silent. Harry bet his whole fortune that she'd learnt that song from Mandos.

Cradling Frodo in her arms, Sataressë walked to the center of the circle. _"Answer me, **where is Elrond."**_

_"I am here. Though I too, am curious as to your sudden appearance, in both Arda and Imladris, I will prioritize." _A deep voice said from behind Harry.

_"Are you as gifted with the healing arts as you were when you were an elfling?" _Sataressë asked, slowly turning around to look at a dark-haired half-elf.

_"I am the most experienced healer in Imladris." _Elrond replied calmly as he approached. _"This halfling…" _He took Frodo from Harry's arms, and a glimpse of sapphire twinkled on the half-elf's finger, _"This is Frodo Baggins?"_

"Yes,_ and I leave him in your care. Now, I must be going back – "_

_"Back where? _Niphredil."

Sataressë turned and promptly abandoned the control panel, leaving Harry standing face to face with a blank-faced Legolas.

In other words, an angry Legolas.

"…Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn, Legolas."

The demented Ron Syndrome strikes again.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks for reading and reviewing, following, and favoriting! Every review I get makes my day. :)

Okay, news for the readers: I have landed myself an internship, and may not be able to update as quickly.


	8. Of Various Meetings and Explanations

**Irremissable Disclaimer:** Tolkienverse and Potterverse don't belong to me.

**A/N:** To those who asked whether I'd forgotten to translate the Elvish… I have the occasional typo and grammar problems, (pitfalls of not bothering with a beta) but did you really think I wouldn't reveal the meaning in time!?

* * *

**Back to the Beginning**

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

Of Various Meetings and Explanations

* * *

"Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn, Legolas." Even as Harry found himself saying this, he had to hold back a wince. What was Legolas doing here? The Mirkwood Prince was the last person he'd expected to meet in Imladris.

"_Is that all you have to say to me, Niphredil? That 'the stars shine upon the hour of our meeting'?" _Legolas asked archly.

At his cold voice, Harry felt his heart sinking. And that was when he noticed that all the elves could hear what they were saying; now he wanted the ground to swallow him up.

He had to get away; he had a legitimate, if not pressing, reason.

Getting back his bearings, Harry shook his head at Legolas, saying, _"Now is not the time, Legolas. I must get back to Aragorn and the others – they are still in danger – "_

"_And I suppose you believe yourself above such petty things like danger?"_ Legolas demanded, grabbing Harry's forearm. The same place Thranduil and Aragorn had. Honestly, what was it about angered males that made them think that they could just go around grabbing people's arms!? Had _he_ been like that? Going around and grabbing arms of innocent people whenever he was in a temper?

Harry's eyes blazed. _"Legolas. Let go."_ He flexed his forearm, trying to pull his arm out of Legolas' grasp, but the Mirkwood prince only tightened his grip.

"_No. If you insist on going, I will accompany you."_

Gritting his teeth, Harry ground out, _"Fine."_

If he'd be taking one elf, he might as well take another elf who was a seasoned warrior. Harry cast his eyes about and they fell on the blond that Sataressë had called –

_"Glorfindel!"_

Glorfindel, twice-born balrog-slayer… sounded impressive enough. Though this impressively decorated warrior was still obviously struggling to swallow his disbelief at the sight of Harry.

_"I told Aragorn that I would return to him, but he travels with three other halflings to protect. He will need your strength against the Nine. Are you willing?" _

Harry felt Legolas' grip around his forearm tighten briefly and Harry spared him an annoyed glance; what, was his pride as a warrior hurt? Glorfindel had been a force to reckon with even back before Sataressë had left Arda, Legolas should obviously know that!

Slowly, Glorfindel said, _"Few would dare ride openly against the Nine, much less on foot. Let me get my steed."_

Harry very nearly broke his teeth; he was gritting them so hard. How many times did he have to say there was no time, for them to get it into their pretty little heads that he wasn't pulling their legs? _"What is your steed's name?"_

"…_Asfaloth. Why do you ask – "_

"_Accio Asfaloth!"_

As an agitated neighing sounded closer and closer to the alarm of many elves, Harry looked pointedly at Legolas. _"Do you wish to ride as well?"_

Returning Harry's arch look, Legolas simply put two fingers to his mouth and whistled, high and clear, and soon a galloping sound could be heard. He was clearly unwilling to put his steed through the same undignified treatment that Asfaloth had received.

As he summoned saddles and tacks for the horses as well, Harry was unsure as to how he would apparate with four others, two riders and their horses, but he had to try.

After Glorfindel and Legolas had saddled and mounted their horses, Harry extended both arms in order to touch the horses' manes (he was unsure of how the horses would handle the peculiar sensation of apparation) when both Glorfindel and Legolas took his hands and – there was no other word for it – _manhandled_ Harry, each trying to get Harry onto his own horse, _simultaneously_.

Harry was so shocked that he cried out in English, "Hey! Oi! What are you – "

As it turned out, elven males were the polar opposite of Ron; while Ron was quite unable to read signs even right before his nose, these elves were reading signs _that just weren't there. _Both had taken Harry's extended arms as a sign of 'please lift me up onto your horse, oh gallant warrior'.

As both warriors glared at one another, a seething Harry with both feet planted firmly on the ground considered leaving them both behind. But he probably needed the warriors', if not their horses, help.

Harry had neither time nor energy to waste in placating the two elves; they could work out their frustrations with each other on the Nazgûl. So he clamped both hands on an ankle each and apparated back to where he'd last left Aragorn.

The horses reared in panic at the sensation, and their riders, though not having fared much better themselves, fought to calm them.

Harry, who had much better bearings, looked around for Aragorn and the halflings. "Point me, Aragorn." Harry whispered to the Elder Wand, which obligingly pointed up the hill. So Aragorn was still alive, always a good sign.

Both elves had managed to calm their horses and were looking around in wonder. Legolas stated the obvious as if trying to convince his self it was real. _"We have been…transported… to a completely different place."_

"_What was – " _Glorfindel started, but Harry cut him off.

"_I will explain later." _He started up the hill, but the warrior elves immediately protested.

"Niphredil!"  
"Sataressë!"

Legolas looked incredulously over at Glorfindel when he heard how the warrior elf addressed Harry, as Glorfindel did the same over to the elven prince.

Harry, having lived for almost half a year with minimal amounts of testosterone, had absolutely no desire to involve himself in a fight over leadership. He'd had quite enough of leadership in the office of Head Auror, thank you very much. The way they were behaving, it would have been better off leaving them behind at Rivendell! Come to think on it, if he'd apparated with four other creatures, he _would_ have been better off coming alone, if not just to save time apparating back with Aragorn and the three other halflings.

He yelled back at them in Westron, "You can either stay behind and decide on the alpha between the two of you, or you can follow me as I go after Aragorn and the halflings!_ Elves, useless, the lot of them…"_

And so Harry murmured the song of fleet feet to himself in search of Aragorn and the halflings, praying that he wasn't too late.

He heard the two horses following him, and eventually, Glorfindel's horse overtook him. _"Do you see Aragorn? Or any halflings?" _Harry shouted. Horses did tend to give their riders a higher vantage point. But before Glorfindel could answer, Harry spotted a head of dark curls. "Aragorn!"

The dúnadan turned around sharply. "Holly! You're all right!" He nodded up at Legolas and Glorfindel – both once more puzzled at Harry's alias – and greeted them in their own tongue. "You've brought reinforcements. Is there anything you _can't_ do?"

Harry remembered answering that question once and had no desire to repeat voicing his greatest misery, so he just ignored that rhetorical question.

"What of the Black Riders?"

"After you… disappeared with Frodo, they've gone." He looked up at Glorfindel and Legolas. "He's with Lord Elrond, now?"

"Yes." Harry said tersely. "I would have come earlier, but," he shot Glorfindel and Legolas a nasty look, "we had a spot of trouble getting ourselves together. What of the halflings?"

A round-faced halfling cautiously looked out from behind a rock. Two others peeked out as well.

"Hey! You're the one who disappeared with Mister Frodo! What have you done with him?" The round-cheeked one demanded.

"He's in the care of the elves, now. You are quite welcome for saving your Mister Frodo's life." Harry said rather tartly.

"You say you took him to the elves – " the fair-haired one started, but Glorfindel halted him.

"She's back with us elves, is that not enough proof for you?" He dismounted his white horse. "I am Glorfindel."

Legolas, too, dismounted. "I am Legolas."

Aragorn nudged the halflings to introduce their selves.

"Meriadoc Brandybuck, at your service, but people just call me Merry."

"Peregrin Took, and I'm better known as Pippin. Or Pip."

The round-faced one still looked suspicious, but he introduced himself. "Samwise Gamgee, if you please. Mister Frodo calls me Sam." Though he avoided Harry's eyes, Sam managed to ask, "How… how did you just disappear like that? There was a loud sound, like a – a whip cracking."

Harry sighed. "It's like… instant transportation. You're in one place one moment, but then you're in another the next. As long as you have a picture in your head, it doesn't matter how far away it is." Nobody had anything to say to that. Glorfindel and Legolas because they'd experienced it firsthand, and the others because they didn't know how to reply to such an absurd claim.

In the blissful silence, Harry considered his options; a portkey wouldn't work because of the horses, and he really couldn't trust a side-along apparation consisting of six passengers. That left one option. He looked at the elves. "Would you each mind riding with a halfling? I don't think I can take you all back with me at once, and even if the Nine aren't around I don't think we should stay in one place for long." Turning to Aragorn, Harry asked, "About how far away from Rivendell are we?"

"About two weeks of journey."

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. Two weeks was a long time, especially for weary halflings.

But apparently, some people didn't agree. "Two weeks is not a long time." Glorfindel said. "And any one of you is welcome on my horse."

"And mine." Legolas swiftly added.

It seemed the testosterone battle between the elves wasn't over, but Harry didn't call them on it. "So that leaves two without horses, not including me. I'll take Aragorn, because a horse can't support two grown males." Harry turned to the halflings. "Which of you would like to come with me?"

Though he still looked wary of Harry, Samwise Gamgee stepped forward. "I still don't trust you, but I want to see Mister Frodo."

Harry gave a wry grin at that blunt answer, and glanced at Merry and Pippin, whom both shrugged. "Sam's the worrywart of the group." Merry said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Yes. He's quite the mother hen." Pippin agreed, and Sam flushed.

Harry smiled wryly. "Well then, it's been decided." For the horses' sake, Harry decided to sing the full song of fleet feet. 'Thank Merlin for Nessa's friendship with Sataressë.'

Aragorn gave him a sideways glance. "So it _was_ you."

Harry gave him a questioning look, still in the midst of singing.

"That burst of energy whilst we Rangers were running from the orcs."

Harry's questioning look turned into a sheepish one.

Harry missed Legolas' scrutiny of his interaction with Aragorn, but he caught sight of it at the last moment.

After the song was finished, everybody looked more energetic and brighter, save for Legolas, who had a blank look on his face.

Harry knew that with Legolas, blank face equated angry face. Before the woodland elf mounted his horse again, Harry quietly said, _"You have every right to be angry with me for my abrupt, not to mention rude, departure. When you arrive in Imladris, I will relay to you later of what has happened these past months." _When Legolas refused to meet his eyes, Harry added, "Mellon."

That single word softened Legolas' countenance a bit, and he mounted his horse. _"I will hold you to your word, Niphredil."_

"Be safe, all of you." Harry said, and the others nodded and murmured much the same. So with a firm grasp of Aragorn's hand in one hand and Sam's hand in the other, Harry apparated back to Rivendell.

They landed back in the circle, and Harry automatically steadied Sam when he stumbled.

At Aragorn's appearance, the elves who remained in the hall, worried about the Black Riders, immediately stood.

"_Estel!"_

Aragorn greeted them all like family members, and Harry and Sam stood to the side, feeling a tad awkward, not to mention out of place. The two, as unfamiliar as they were with each other, traded looks, taking comfort in not being the only one discomforted.

"It seems Aragorn's Elven name is Estel." Harry murmured to the plump halfling.

"Estel?"

"It means hope."

"You know elvish, then?"

"Are you surprised?" Harry grinned down at Sam who shook his head, more relaxed than before.

"After your sorcery, I reckon that nothing can surprise me anymore."

A male elf stepped up to Harry.

"_My name is Lindir, Lady Sataressë – "_

Harry firmly interrupted, _"Just Sataressë, spare me the titles."_

Lindir merely bowed at this. _" – and I have come to tell you that Lord Elrond requests your presence."_

Harry glanced at Sam. _"What of this halfling? He is a close friend of the injured one."_

"_He may go see the other halfling, who is fortunately, on the mend, thanks to your swiftness and Lord Elrond's healing skills."_

Harry turned to Sam. "He says that Frodo will recover, and that you can go see him."

Sam's face brightened considerably at that tidbit of news. "Mister Frodo will be alright?"

"That's something you can see for yourself if you follow Master Lindir. Let's go."

Dropping off Sam at the healing rooms, Lindir continued on to lead Harry to Elrond's office.

Harry wavered at the door for a moment. Should he go in as Sataressë?

No.

He couldn't always rely on her.

And there were some things he wanted to know about Sataressë that she was withholding from him. Perhaps Elrond could provide the answers.

He gave a perfunctory knock and opened the door.

Elrond stood at a window, looking out at the sunset.

"_Did you know that Imladris is called the 'Last Homely House East of the Sea'?"_

"_I did not. But you have done well to build it." _Harry affected his speech in a manner reminiscent of Sataressë's. He knew she could pop out at any time, and that she probably knew his intentions… but one hurdle at a time.

He joined Elrond at the window and stared out at the admittedly beautiful sunset; but he could not enjoy it; he had too much on his mind, not least worry for the four traveling toward Imladris, whether or not they were being pursued by the Black Riders.

"_I'd heard you set sail for Valinor early into the Second Age."_

Scoffing a bit, Harry stated, _"You and Thranduil both."_ Giving Elrond a sidelong look, Harry continued, _"But I see you are full of questions. Do not hesitate to ask them, though I do not promise an answer to all."_

There was a pause, in which Harry assumed that Elrond was gathering his thoughts.

"_Glorfindel, of the firstborn, and afterwards twice-born, was very fond of you. There was a betting pool going on, of whether he'd finally win your affections."_

Harry very nearly choked. He briefly considered relinquishing his body to Sataressë, when he saw a slight smile tilting Elrond's lips. Raising his eyebrows, Harry forced himself to reply. _"Come now, we both know that is not the true point of your summons."_

Elrond bowed his head. _"I would never dare summon one such as you, Sataressë, but you are correct. I was merely teasing for what I heard happened earlier in the courtyard."_

Harry had to fight with himself not to glare at Elrond, who had become serious now.

"_Have you returned as the satar of Mandos?"_

Harry had to think of a careful reply to this question. _"I no longer work for the Doomsman of the Valar."_ He may not work for Mandos, but as far as he knew, the title could hold forever.

"_So you have returned to fulfill your own agenda."_ Elrond was now eyeing Harry rather warily.

"_I would be deceiving you if I said I had no agenda. My agenda is to help the dúnadan, standing outside amongst elves this very moment, find his true place in this world."_ Harry paused. Rather, that was Sataressë's agenda. His agenda… did he even _have_ an agenda? Not being bored to tears?

"_Where on Arda did you go, if you were not in Valinor?"_

Again with this question.

Harry settled for telling a mixed, not-quite-lie. _"I was neither on Arda nor Valinor. I was gone for six millennia and then some, and that is all that is relevant."_

Elrond sighed, as if he had expected an answer like that. _"Will you tell me the reason for your return, at least?"_

Harry drew breath. _"Sauron has returned. Fell creatures – "_ Harry thought of the spiders… _" – are becoming active once more. Other powers…" _Harry's eyes flickered down to Elrond's sapphire ring, which he had concluded was Vilya, of Celebrimbor's three elven rings. _"…forged… during my absence are appearing. So I ask you, Elrond, why should I __**not **__return?"_

For a while, the dark-haired elf lord had no answer, and Harry thought the interrogation was over. But then Elrond opened his mouth and said,_ "You were always the mercy to balance Mandos' justice. You should never have left."_

Recalling the diatribe that Sataressë had launched into the day she had discovered Sauron had returned, Harry replied solemnly, _"I am not nearly as merciful as you credit me to be."_

A suffocating silence ensued, before Harry intentionally broke it by a change of subject. _"Estel tells me you have rooms of tomes that provide a much more pleasant read than the woody tomes of Mirkwood."_

Elrond laughed at this. _"Ah yes, rumor is that the Mirkwood palace has only a single tome room. Catching up on history there must have been as dry as chewing on fallen leaves."_

"_Quite an apt comparison. Tell me, how was the change of common language brought about? It was quite an uphill battle to learn and I have yet to be able to write…"_

"_You have learnt to speak Westron? 'Twas quite a gradual thing, all things considered – "_

All in all, Elrond was a _much_ more pleasant conversationalist than Thranduil, Harry concluded.

…

That night, after Harry had bathed and changed into the most modest robes he could find (not very), a tune came to mind.

A tune that would have much better used earlier that day.

A part of a song.

Song of Healing, to be precise.

His forehead came into contact with the wood of the closet with a very audible thunk. He had learnt the song of healing from Estë, the Healer of Hurts and Weariness of the Valar, and rued that he hadn't remembered to use it on Frodo.

He'd just focused on discovering the One Ring, the Nazgûl, and Aragorn's true mission, and flown straight into battle auror mode, which, most unfortunately, did not include memories of singing healing songs.

Well, technically, it was_ Sataressë_ who had learnt it, not him, Harry reminded himself. But he'd dreamt that he'd learnt it from Sataressë's point of view, there wasn't much difference. He didn't know the full song, and so assumed that neither did Sataressë, as Estë hadn't managed to finish teaching the song, falling asleep in the lake as soon as the daybreak came. And for some reason, Sataressë had never gone back to learn the rest of the song. Or if she had, she never gave Harry dreams of it.

'Either give me a useful dream tonight, or none at all.' Harry thought to Sataressë resentfully, and he drifted to sleep, wondering whether the two elves and two halflings were doing alright on their trek here.

…

The next day, Harry vaguely explained the powers of Elder Wand to Elrond, as he had with Aragorn. Following breakfast, Elrond promptly took him to a glass case containing pieces of a sword, containing the broken pieces of –

_"Narsil."_ Harry recognized through Sataressë's memories. _"Forged by Telchar."_ He began to shake his head. Of course the Elder Wand could repair it, but it would restore it back to its original form, which obviously hadn't been strong enough stay whole. _"If it has broken against Sauron once, even restored to its original form, it would break again. You must reforge the pieces together into a stronger sword."_

Elrond had reluctantly nodded, but Harry smiled at him.

_"In the meantime, I have given Estel a sword that is not inferior to Narsil, so do not feel pressed for time."_

Appearing curious, Elrond asked,_ "A sword?"_

Harry drew his as-of-yet-unnamed blade. _"Estel had been giving me lessons before we were forced to flee." _He held his sword out hilt first to for Elrond to take.

Examining it, Elrond's eyes grew round with wonder. _"It took me a while to remember how to forge blades properly, it had been so long. This blade had chipped Estel's sword, so I made him a new one, though the hilt and scabbard could have been better." _Harry admitted. _"I hope you have Elvish smiths here, the hilt I made does not look so fair for such a good swordsman."_

_"If not here, the elves of Lothlórien will do it. Tell me, what is the name of this blade?"_

_"It has no name." _Harry said simply. _"The matter of fact is, I do not feel I have the right to name it."_ Catching Elrond's questioning look, Harry explained,_ "I have yet to wield a sword **properly** in battle."_

_"I see. Would you like the Elvish smiths here to redo the hilt and scabbard for your blade as well?"_

Harry shook his head, though he appreciated the offer. _"Though it has yet to be named, I have grown rather attached to this blade as a whole, no matter how ugly the hilt and scabbard may be. If the enemy underestimate it for its appearance, all the better."_

…

A day later found Harry sitting in a corner of a tome room looking up the history of Sauron, brows furrowed. His eyes had lingered on the same line for thirty minutes, not taking it in, his mind somewhere else.

He reflected on the battle that had taken place two days ago and he'd remembered the form of his patronus had changed. Before it had been a stag. His father's animagus form. Prongs.

Now it was a _doe_.

Was it because he was a female now?

But Snape had been a man, and _his_ patronus had been a doe… but that was because he'd loved Harry's mother.

That led him to another strain of thought: patronuses only changed in the case of a serious emotional – or spiritual, whatever that meant – upheaval. Had he been that shocked that he had turned into a female? Yes, he supposed, but it was a dream –

Harry stopped mid-thought.

_It was a dream._

How long had it been since he'd actively thought that?

Too long.

When was the last time he'd hoped to 'wake up'?

He couldn't remember.

He'd been busy, Harry reasoned. Busy catching up on history, learning another language, finding civilization, cleaning, forging a sword, learning swordplay…

But the fact that Harry had _forgotten_ he was in a dream, and that he had to wake up at all costs, made Harry feel like he'd committed a terrible sin. Against his world. Against his family. Against his past. Against his identity.

But he was still _Harry_, wasn't he? His form may be different, but his essence hadn't changed. Had it?

"_Sataressë."_

Elrond's voice startled Harry from his thoughts.

"_Frodo has awoken."_

Harry smiled, genuinely relieved. _"That is wonderful news. Sam must be overjoyed. How is Frodo?"_

"_He is healing wonderfully."_

'No thanks to me.' Harry thought bitterly.

Sensing Harry's discomfort, Elrond reassured him, _'Twas no wound that could be sung closed. And even if it had, 'twould have been even more difficult and painful to find the shard of the Morgul blade that was headed toward his heart."_

The corners of Harry's mouth tightened. Shutting the book in his lap, he stood. _"I still should have remembered the song." _

After a moment of hesitation, Elrond asked, _"What is it that troubles you, Sataressë?"_

In a low voice, Harry confessed to Elrond, _"I am not the Sataressë you once knew, Elrond." _Once the truth had left his lips, the rest spilled out after it like a waterfall. _"Half a year ago it was, when I woke up in Arda, with no knowledge of where I was… what **Arda** was. And half a year's worth of nights spent, dreaming of memories scattered over thousands of millennia." _Agitated, Harry abruptly turned to Elrond. _"What is half a year's nights, compared to the eons that the Sataressë I am supposed to be has lived through?" _Harry started shaking his head._ "The memories are incomplete. I am not Sataressë. I no longer know who I am."_

At that admission, Harry felt the world crumble down around him. Who _was_ he?

Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world? Harry Potter had a lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead, and 'I will not tell lies' engraved into his right hand in his own handwriting. Harry Potter was a man. A wizard, but still a human.

What was he now? An ancient woman with superhuman abilities, a former companion of Death's equivalent in Arda?

At that ludicrous phrasing, Harry burst out into delirious laughter, and Elrond stepped back a bit, slightly alarmed. Getting a hold of his self, Harry gave Elrond a strained smile.

"_I apologize, Elrond. 'Twas improper of me to unload my worries onto you. You have enough to worry about as it is."_

With that, Harry swept past the bewildered Elven Lord.

Wandering aimlessly, Harry found himself at the foot of a waterfall. The water looked alluring. Could he return to his world if he drowned? He had entertained thoughts of it early on in the dream. But was this all a dream? Truly? He didn't think so anymore.

"Admiring thine own visage?"

Despite himself, Harry snorted. "Shove off, Aragorn."

"What's on your mind?"

"Many things."

"Worried for the others?"

Guilt struck Harry like lightning. He'd been a self-absorbed flake, agonizing over his identity, when there were people out there risking their lives. But Aragorn was the last one he wanted to admit that to, so he pursed his lips and chose not to answer.

After the brief silence, Aragorn stated, "Frodo has awoken."

Nodding, Harry said, "Elrond told me so as well. Have you gone to visit him?"

"Briefly. He is curious as to the identity of his rescuer."

This gave Harry pause. "He has met Elrond, hasn't he?"

Aragorn scratched at his head. "I meant you, Holly."

Harry looked at Aragorn, perturbed. "Why would he consider me his rescuer?"

Aragorn shot him a puzzled look. "If you had not brought him here as quickly as you had, Frodo would have been in great danger."

Harry drew breath. "Does he know the events that happened?"

"Ada told us not to let him talk or worry, but I gave him a quick run through, because he would not stop asking."

"Well, I too have wanted to meet him face to face while he was conscious, so let us go." Harry grabbed Aragorn's arm and apparated to the healing room.

When Harry let go of Aragorn's arm, the dúnedan looked at him, looking slightly nauseated. "While I do admit it is a convenient way to travel, I would much rather walk the short distance than go through that queer sensation."

Shrugging, Harry replied, "I didn't know how to get here."

"I could have led the way." Aragorn argued back.

Sam hushed them. "Don't you two have a pence of manners? Mister Frodo just woke up!"

Frodo gave Sam a wry look. "I woke up hours ago, Sam. Hullo Strider." He shyly turned to Harry. "And Miss…?"

Harry hastily waved aside the prefix and said, "Call me Holly, no titles or prefixes."

Frodo's blue eyes widened. "Oh, so you're the one who brought me here! I've heard all about it! From both sides, one from Sam, and the other from Lord Elrond, though he called you Sataressë. I'd sit up properly to bow my thanks, but I don't think Sam here would let me." He gave Harry a cheerful grin, who couldn't help but grin back.

"Too right I won't! Lord Elrond said strict bed rest."

Pretending to not hear Sam, Harry stage whispered conspiratorially, "I can imagine. Sam here was beside himself with worry, even after Lord Elrond declared you would be all right. 'Couldn't be sure until he saw you wide awake with his own eyes' was along the lines of what he said, I think?"

As Sam reddened with embarrassment, Frodo laughed merrily. "Well, Sam hasn't changed much for the journey, I'd think, except to become doubly protective. I don't quite know how I can repay you, but if it's within my power, I shall try."

"You just get better, Frodo, and that's all the repayment I'll need."

Cheeks tinged slightly pink, Frodo hesitantly nodded. As he looked into Harry's eyes, his blue ones widened. "Wait… I've seen you before, haven't I? At the Prancing Pony?"

Impressed, Harry observed, "You're a clever one, aren't you? I had a rather different face then."

"But you have the same eyes. And hair bauble." Frodo said.

"Too true. 'Twas what gave you away to me as well, Holly." Aragorn chipped in. "Though I do not remember being called clever. She plays favorites, this one."

"Frodo had not even spoken to me back then. And need I remind you how I was able to trail you for near a month without you realizing?"

Frodo and Sam's eyes widened. "Able to trail Strider without him realizing?" Frodo asked in amazement, and Aragorn winced.

"I didn't know that was possible!" Sam exclaimed.

"You're forgetting a key detail, that you are an Istar and a shapeshifter." Aragorn reminded Harry.

"Shapeshifter? Oh, do tell us!"

Harry grinned. These halflings reminded him of his grandchildren begging for stories. "Well, it started out with about fifty some orcs and their wargs – "

…

Every day afterwards, Harry would go spend some time with Frodo and Sam. Frodo was nowhere near as untrusting as Sam, though that may be due to the fact that he'd met Harry _after_ he had been healed. But he was, in general, very congenial, and very eager to hear stories, which Harry was full of. Sharing memories with an ageless being could do that to a person.

And of course, they – or well, more Frodo than Sam – begged to see magic. Harry performed small magics for them, like bewitching cushions to dance for them, changing the colors of their clothes, harmless things.

When he wasn't spending time with Frodo and Sam, Harry snuck off to watch the elves practicing swordplay, sharp eyes greedily taking in everything to imitate later.

_"Why do you not ask to join them?"_ A melodic voice sounded from behind Harry.

Harry turned in surprise; he hadn't expected anyone to spot him. The voice belonged to an elf, and a very beautiful maiden at that, with dark hair cascading down her back and a womanly figure.

And she resembled Elrond.

_"Are you, perchance, Elrond's…"_

The lady finished for him, _"…Daughter? Yes, my name is Arwen."_

_"Ah. Elrond spoke of his three children. The rumors of your beauty do you no justice."_ Harry said, with a touch of shyness that he thought he'd outgrown his 5th year at Hogwarts. But he barreled on, _"'Twas true when elves say your loveliness compares to that of Lúthien. And do not think I am merely saying this, for I have seen Lúthien in person."_

Arwen's expression went from politely blank to a blush that dusted over her complexion, serving only to enhance her beauty._ "I have heard from my father that you are Sataressë, the mercy to Mandos' justice."_

Harry sighed. _"I don't know why everyone from Imladris calls me that. I feel it is hardly better than my title in Mirkwood."_

Arwen looked curious._ "May I ask what their title for you was, over in their woods?"_

Smiling bitterly, Harry answered sardonically, _"Nurundil, the 'sole chosen satar of Mandos'."_

Confusion clouded Arwen's beautiful features. _"I should think Imladris' title for you is much more pleasant."_

_"Oh, it is."_ Harry said fervently._ "'Tis the matter of my worthiness of the title that bothers me."_

Arwen smiled gently._ "Shall I tell you Lothlórien's title for you?"_

_"I am not altogether sure if I want to know." _Harry commented rather dryly.

_"'Tis Leithiatar, 'The Escape from Mandos,' and 'Champion of Souls'."_

Harry blinked. Leithiatar meant 'one who releases'. Whatever he'd expected, it wasn't that. _"Escape? Champion of Souls?" _Escape, made sense, as 'Mandos' meant 'prison-fortress'… though how he – no, Sataresse – had provided escape from said prison-fortress he had no idea. And how was Sataressë a champion of souls?

_"There are tales of people who – unquestionably gone to the Halls of Mandos – mysteriously reappeared in… different situations. Where they could redeem themselves."_

Well. It seemed Sataressë had broken rules as well. That was one thing they had in common. Besides unruly black hair and green eyes, that is. Harry managed a smile. _"Well, I may have broken a rule or two. Mayhap 'tis the reason for my infamy."_

_"Perhaps, but it is probable 'twas more the fact that you were Mandos' only companion." _Arwen said. _  
_

Harry managed to keep the smile on his face from turning into a grimace. Just barely. What was the deal with every world treating him like such a bloody big deal? Noticing Harry's change in mood, however, Arwen changed the subject. _"How are you adjusting to Arda in its Third Age?"_

Chuckling, Harry said, _"Rather well, thanks to Legolas."_

A spark of interest lit Arwen's keen grey eyes. _"The Prince of Mirkwood?"_

_"Yes, he caught me up on all the millennia and helped me learn Westron. Though I repaid his kindness back poorly by losing my temper at him and leaving without a word."_ Harry snorted.

_"'Tis good that you can admit it."_

At the familiar voice, Harry closed his eyes and steeled himself before turning around.

_"Legolas."_

Arwen turned to greet Legolas. _"Prince Legolas."_

Legolas acknowledged Elrond's daughter as well._ "Lady Arwen."_

Foreseeing a weighty silence to ensue after such terse 'greetings' Harry immediately attempted to circumvent it. _"So you have returned safely, and earlier than expected. What of the halflings? And Glorfindel?"_

Legolas stiffened at the mention of Glorfindel's name (had they _still_ not managed to work out who the alpha male was?), but he replied, _"The hobbits have been reunited with their companions, and I expect they are resting now. And our making good time was thanks to your **singing**."_

Great. Another thing to explain. And Harry did not fail to notice that there had been no mention of Glorfindel in Legolas' answer.

Arwen took breath. _"Well, I shall leave you two to catch up."_ She glided away. Harry had to try very hard from not resenting her; grace, tact, and the _wisdom_ to flee from what would obviously become an ugly scene, all rolled into one short sentence.

If only Harry had even _half_ of Arwen's traits.

* * *

A/N#2: I will try to fit in one more update before my internship starts!


	9. Of Confrontations and Istari

**Unavoidable Disclaimer:** Not. Mine. Belong. To. JKR. To. JRRTolkien.

* * *

**Back to the Beginning**

* * *

**Legolas**

The way back to Rivendell

* * *

Legolas had to try very hard to not overwork his horse, though his horse somehow looked much more spry than usual.

The halflings were quiet for most of the journey, worried for their companions.

At one point, Legolas reassured Merry, the one he rode with. "Do not worry for your companions. "Niphredil may be mysterious, but she is by no means malicious."

Glorfindel suddenly asked, "Prince Legolas, may I ask why you call Lady Sataressë by the name of a flower?"

This, of course, irked Legolas. "Lord Glorfindel, I have harbored a similar question, except it is why you insist on calling Niphredil by a name that carries no meaning at all."

Raising an eyebrow, Glorfindel parried, "It would be 'Sadoreth' in Sindarin, derived from 'faithful one,' I believe."

Merry and Pippin looked at each other, then back at their carriers.

"Strider called her Holly." Merry pitched in.

Glorfindel looked bemused. "Yes, I had noticed. Mayhap she thought her name would draw too much attention, though it has been long since she vanished into obscurity."

"You said you're from Mirkwood, Legolas?" Pippin asked, and Legolas nodded, not sure where this was going. "Three different places. Three different names." Pippin mused. "Maybe she's a spy?" Three pairs of eyes turned to Pippin, two pairs rather wrathful at the accusation, while the last one was just plain exasperated. Pippin shrank back at their gazes. "Just a suggestion. No need to get all worked up over it."

Merry looked like he could smack Pippin over the head if he weren't riding on a different horse.

A tense silence settled over them; only the clip-clopping of hooves could be heard, until Glorfindel repeated, "So, Prince Legolas. You never answered my question. Why do you call Lady Sataressë by the name of a flower?"

It would be impolite not to answer the legendary warrior, Legolas supposed. So (rather curtly) he answered, "She offered it as her name." _'As opposed to Seron.' _Legolas added silently.

Glorfindel's question was more of a statement. "And you believed her." He eyed Legolas doubtfully. "A snowdrop is hardly fitting for ebony-colored hair."

Legolas acknowledged, "I suspected it was an alias. But I call her Niphredil to respect her wishes." Eyeing Glorfindel, Legolas added, "And it suits her, not by appearance, but by character."

Glorfindel seemed to wonder what Legolas meant, when Pippin muttered, "I think Holly suits her just fine. From what I saw, she's spiky, that one."

Merry looked torn between sobbing with embarrassment and fearing for his companion who sat directly in front of one irate Glorfindel.

Hours later when they were setting up camp for the sleepy hobbits, Glorfindel quietly stated, "When she vanished off the face of Arda, I thought she was gone forever. Some believed she had set for Valinor, but I've known her for millennia. She wouldn't have."

At the mention of the ageless not-Niphredil, Legolas' jabs at the fire became a tad more vehement than necessary. Yet despite himself, Legolas was curious about the 'Sataressë' that the twice-born warrior elf knew.

"Oh?" Though not curious enough to manage more than one syllable answers.

"She was too restless. Perfection didn't suit her so well."

So far, she sounded an awful lot like Niphredil.

The former Gondolin Elf looked up at the night sky and the stars that Elbereth had placed there. "She was always striving to learn something, or fix something. Put things right. Sataressë was the mercy to Mandos' justice, as those who know of her say in the House of Elrond."

Remembering the ageless being's reaction to hearing of Sauron's return and her distinct displeasure as she recalled Eönwë showing Sauron mercy, Legolas was not quite sure if they were talking about the same being anymore.

"There were rumors that she wove _*hröa_ to match the _*fëa_ for elves and men she felt deserved a second chance at redemption. 'Choices are made due to circumstance,' she believed."

_[*fëa: soul]  
[*hröa: body, a shell necessary for a fëa to dwell in Arda]_

Legolas was astonished. "But, only the Valar can create – "

"You heard her sing, did you not? And you were energized afterwards, were you not?" Glorfindel looked Legolas in the eye. "She can sing things into creation and life, just like every other Ainu. She chose to stay on Arda, and thus became a Maia, but an Ainu she was, once."

By now the hobbits were snoring, fast asleep. "I was one of the firstborn, and I retain all my memories from my previous life as Glorfindel the Gondolin. When Sataressë was not running with deer, she was always practicing, honing her skills, and learning. She was not content with doing nothing. I'd bet my best sword she learnt how to knit hröa from the Valar as well. It would be just like her, sneaking out fëa with the corresponding hröa, placing them where they would flourish and redeem themselves many times over."

Legolas did not know what to think. From the first day he'd met Niphredil, he'd set his mind to hate the ageless being that controlled her from time to time… but now that he actually heard of the ageless being – Sataressë, for it was cruel to call her Nurundil when she disliked the name so – from another point of view, he couldn't bring himself to actually despise her.

Unaware of Legolas' thoughts, Glorfindel continued, "Elrond always says that Sataressë should never have left Arda. Aside from the Valar, I believe Sataressë was the one being the Master of the Nine actually feared, because she reflected him as an equal in power, yet still stayed uncorrupted."

With a bitter smile on his face, Glorfindel said, "Once he was sure she had left Arda for good, _He_ rose again. He put on a fair visage, and even tried to imitate her generosity and kindness. Except his generosity was not genuine, as hers was." The conversation had started from Sataressë and ended bitterly on Sauron.

But Glorfindel's description of Sataressë left Legolas a lot to think over.

After hearing Glorfindel speak, Legolas' had to add to his list of theories, one where Niphredil was a considerably de-aged version of Sataressë. Partial amnesia. That would explain the lack of memories she mentioned.

But first he had to reconcile with Niphredil.

That would be the first step.

He would deal with the matter of Sataressë later.

The one time they came upon the three of the Nine, Glorfindel expelled them by shining a golden light uncloaking the Riders; Legolas shot the black horses down for good, crippling the Riders to mere bodiless, blind wraiths.

When they arrived in Imladris on the day of October 16th, in a mere ten days to Aragorn's projected fourteen, the hobbits were greeted by their companions, and overjoyed to see that the injured one – Frodo, they had called him – was healthy and well. There was much hugging and laughing going on, but Legolas had one objective.

Find Niphredil.

Glorfindel had presumably gone to see Elrond, and he would go to see where Niphredil was.

There was a clashing of swords in the courtyard. With a pang, Legolas recalled his jibe at Niphredil's swordwork…

" – Sataressë, the mercy to Mandos' justice."

His ears perked up at the name 'Sataressë'.

"I do not know why everyone from Imladris calls me that. I feel it is hardly better than my title in Mirkwood."

Niphredil's voice: he had hit mithril.

"May I ask what their title for you was, over in their woods?" Legolas recognized Lady Arwen's voice.

"Nurundil, the 'sole chosen satar of Mandos'." Niphredil's voice did not sound too thrilled about her title. Quite rightly too: who would take joy in being called 'Death's Friend, the hand-picked satar, _companion_, of Mandos,' reportedly the unfriendliest of all the Valar?

"Shall I tell you Lothlórien's title for you?"

"I am not altogether sure if I want to know."

"'Tis 'Leithiatar, the Escape from Mandos and Champion of Souls'."

Arwen's following words echoed Glorfindel's; it seemed that Niphredil – or rather Sataressë – could indeed weave hröa. Legolas was a little disgruntled. Of all the titles, why did Mirkwood have to choose the most unflattering one? What would Niphredil think of Mirkwood now?

"How are you adjusting to Arda in its Third Age?"

Niphredil chuckled. "Rather well, thanks to Legolas."

Legolas felt a sudden warmth bloom in his chest when Niphredil said his name.

"The Prince of Mirkwood?"

"Yes, he caught me up on all the millennia and helped me learn Westron." Suddenly, Niphredil's voice soured. "Though I repaid his kindness back poorly by losing my temper at him and leaving without a word."

At that admission, Legolas' anger came rushing back.

"'Tis good that you can admit it."

He saw Niphredil briefly stiffen before turning around. "Legolas."

Arwen turned around to face him as well. "Prince Legolas.

He nodded his head. "Lady Arwen."

Niphredil said, "So you have returned safely, and earlier than expected. What of the halflings? And Glorfindel?"

He noted that she had not questioned after _his_ wellbeing. Granted, he was standing right in front of her and she only had to take one look at him with the greenest eyes he had ever seen to see he was fine – but still.

"The hobbits have been reunited with their companions, and I expect they are resting now. And our making good time was thanks to your _singing." _He emphasized the last word, strongly hinting that it was something she needed to explain to him as well.

Arwen, with the sensibility only an elf-maid could have, pulled herself neatly out of a conversation she had no part in.

Leaving him staring at Niphredil's beryl-green eyes, eyes that stared back filled with something akin to dread.

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

Of Confrontations and Istari

* * *

Legolas assumed a stance that Harry despised; one that made it seem like he towered over Harry.

"_I came for the explanation you promised."_

Stifling a sigh, Harry nodded once in acknowledgement. _"And 'twill be given. Once I straighten out my th – "_

"I had been hoping over hope for near three months. And just when I was about to give up, the hope came. Then I was forced to wait for ten more days. I will wait no longer." Legolas interrupted, surprisingly in Westron.

Annoyed at the interruption, Harry said more sharply than he intended in the corresponding language, "Well, you waited for three months and ten days, a few more seconds shouldn't matter, should it?"

"And if I give you those 'few more seconds' to think, you will use that time to think up ways to omit things that are inconvenient to explain."

At the truth of Legolas' logic, Harry deflated. It was true. He _would_ have found some way to omit things, things difficult to explain, as he had intentionally made things vague with Aragorn because he hadn't wanted to explain apparation, nor the sudden vision Sataressë had given him that had landed him there. Or Sataressë in general.

But how on earth could Harry explain things without bringing up his counterpart?

Stuff it.

He'd do what he did best in his younger days; just wing it.

"Well, I assume you remember what happened in the tome room. I thought that I had just thrown a tantrum, but I realized that wasn't it. I really had to leave. So I left, using the method that I used with you and Glorfindel."

The clanging of swords sounded distant, but they were still distracting. "Can we find someplace more comfortable to talk? I don't fancy standing here with background noise while describing over three months of events."

Legolas eyed Harry, judging the sincerity of his request. "As long as you speak on the way, I don't see why not. Shall we head to my chambers?"

Harry nodded and continued, "Well, it landed me at the foot of some mountain in the north. I suppose 'north' was just a subconscious reaction; I just wanted find the Dúnadain, and I learnt from you that many of them became northern rangers. But it seemed so far away from any civilization. So I transformed into a bird to look for any signs of civilization."

If Legolas was surprised that Harry could transform into a bird, he didn't show it. "I didn't see any towns or villages and such, but I did see some riders being chased by fifty some orcs."

He'd already told Frodo and Sam this part, so this was easy. Following Legolas all the way back to his rooms, Harry sped through meeting Aragorn face to face in Bree.

Abruptly, Legolas interrupted, "We're here. These are my chambers."

Legolas' room wasn't very much different than Harry's chambers. Harry seated himself on a silken armchair.

"Now, where was I?" Harry frowned. "Ah, Aragorn had just addressed me in Sindarin." He smiled wryly. "He had told me he was called Strider, yet after trailing him all the way to civilization, of course I knew his real name. So in my carelessness, I called him 'Aragorn'."

Legolas' lips twitched. Harry was not quite annoyed enough to scowl at the prince. "Yes, feel free to laugh. I can't stop you, oh elven _prince._"

"No, Niphredil. I am not laughing _at _you, it is just… that slip of tongue, it is very… typical of you – " Legolas was covering a grin with a hand.

"Well, I paid dearly for it, because be it by nature or nurture, Aragorn is a very suspicious individual and immediately captured me and interrogated me."

Legolas' mirth vanished and his brow furrowed a bit at that.

"And I ended up confessing everything I just told you, sparing quite a few details, of course. And for the next month, I didn't do much besides earn my keep for the roof and food the inn provided over my head."

Legolas narrowed his eyes. "Earn your keep?"

Harry waved a hand noncommittally. "Just some cleaning, though it was a bit annoying with Aragorn trailing mud everywhere every time he returned from some mysterious excursion."

Legolas jumped to his feet, incensed. "Cleaning!"

Harry shrugged. "I didn't have any money. Besides, cleaning isn't as taxing for me." The Elder Wand appeared in his hand to prove that. Nonetheless, Legolas looked agitated, reverting to Sindarin in his distress.

"_You still have the elfstone in your hair. You could have traded – "_

Harry grew serious and stood as well. _"…I will not pretend the thought had not passed my mind. 'Twas Aragorn who stopped me just in time." _Harry stepped closer to Legolas and took ahold of his shoulders, as he would have for one of his sons._ "I owe you an apology for more things than one. But why did you not tell me this beryl belonged to your mother, Mellon? Thinking it a mere trinket, I almost made an unforgivable mistake."_

Legolas turned away from Harry, twitching his shoulders out of Harry's grasp. He spoke once more in Westron.

"The hobbit. How came you by him? And you mentioned the Nine. Merry and Pippin did not seem to know you as well as they knew Aragorn."

Harry sighed. Legolas obviously was not willing to discuss his mother with him. "Near the end of September, the halflings arrived at the inn. I did not rest well that night, and in the morning, Aragorn and the halflings had gone."

"Estel left you behind?" cried out Legolas, seemingly indignant on Harry's behalf.

"Without a word." Harry agreed drily. "We spent nigh two months together, and one of those spent tutoring me how to wield a sword, and he left me without so much a note. Needless to say, I was angry as well, so again, I tailed him. When the Black Riders came, I tried to give them time to get away. But I was unaware of their true identity as _Ringwraiths, _so I didn't know there would be nine. Only after Frodo was stabbed by a Morgul blade did I realize what they were." Harry knew he was leaving out things again, but the fact that Frodo was the Ringbearer was not his secret to tell. "I revealed myself to Aragorn, and asked for his final destination: he said Rivendell, and so I brought Frodo here, hoping that an image from Aragorn's memories would be enough."

After a pause, Harry changed subjects, "In all honesty, I cannot say that I'm sorry I left Mirkwood palace, but I am sorry for leaving you." With a rueful grin, Harry added, "I got a taste of my own medicine when Aragorn left with the halflings. I'll give you a warning next time."

Legolas raised an eyebrow. "So you intend to leave again?"

Harry shrugged. "I intend to go wherever the dúnadan goes."

There was a silence, in which Legolas looked somewhat perturbed. He drew breath and said rather hesitantly, "…Estel… is already pledged."

Harry had no idea what Legolas was talking about. "…Pledged? To what?"

Legolas sighed and explained to Harry in a more familiar language, _"He has already promised himself to the Lady Arwen."_

With that, Harry realized what Legolas meant by 'pledged'.

"Oh! He's very lucky then, to have captured the heart of Lady Arwen."

But what did Aragorn being engaged to Arwen have anything to do with Harry's plans? There was a silence, filled with an awkwardness Harry could not comprehend. Harry awkwardly tried to patch up the awkward mood by saying, "Then all the more reason to help him regain his rightful place as Isildur's heir, so he can wed Lady Arwen sooner, I guess."

But now Harry understood why Aragorn had chosen to tell the halflings the particular tale of the man Beren and elven-princess Lúthien. Aragorn had seen the parallel between Beren and himself. "Though I imagine Elrond will be grieved to give his only daughter away to a mortal." Harry mused, rather sadly. "If what you say is true, Lady Arwen will choose to become mortal, as Lúthien did."

He and Legolas dwelt in somber silence, before Harry shook himself free of depressing thoughts. He said in a brighter tone, "Well, that's all in the future. For now, let us go to the Hall of Fire. Frodo promised to introduce me to his uncle, whom I hear is a sprightly fellow for his age, and I would not like to be considered the only 'tall folk' at the meeting."

…

At the Hall of Fire, Harry met not only Frodo's uncle and one-time guardian Bilbo, but his companions Merry and Pippin as well.

As Harry had heard, Bilbo was indeed quite the sprightly old hobbit, and Merry and Pippin were, well… young. Pippin especially, and it showed in his lack of tact.

"One time on the way back, Glorfindel and Legolas here – " Legolas raised an eyebrow, " – were arguing about your name." Pippin said. "Strider and Frodo call you Holly. Glorfindel called you Sataressë. Legolas calls you Niphredil. So… what's your real name?"

Harry hesitated. He wasn't Harry; not in this world, and not to anyone in it.

It was Bilbo who saved the day. Or rather, prolonged his agony.

"Oh! You're Sataressë? The mercy to Mandos' justice!"

Holding back a sigh, Harry smiled weakly. He had heard that moniker far too many times.

"Why, there are tales of you that inspired me to write songs!"

Harry briefly flashed back to Lockhart's terrible valentine event in second year and immediately began to dread what would follow.

"Let's see, there's one about you and Master Glorfindel – "

Harry's mouth dropped open in horror.

" – but that one's not fit to sing here – "

At hearing that, Harry couldn't even begin to express how relieved he was.

" – then again, most of my songs aren't good enough to sing in Rivendell, but they sing it anyway, just to humor me – "

Harry felt like he was on a rollercoaster between terror and relief.

" – but I suspect that you shan't want to sit and hear yourself sang about, eh?"

Yes! Deliverance! Harry felt like he would fly. Before Bilbo could change his mind, Harry hurriedly said, "Well, Bilbo, I hear you have an avid interest in stories, so I'll give you some material myself, eh? And it'll be accurate too, not that I'm saying the elves have it wrong, but details tend to get lost or mistook over the ages."

Frodo cried out, "Oh, tell us the one about how *Óli created the Gold and Silver lamps!"

_[*Óli: Sindarin for Aulë, the Smith and the Lord of the Earth]_

"Can you tell us about the rest of the Valar?"

"Do you know where *Thingol went for the centuries he was lost?"

_[*Thingol: Elvenking wed to the Maia Melian and father to elven-princess Lúthien.]_

Harry smiled as the hobbits bombarded him with questions and requests.

He had to rely quite a lot on Sataressë for these stories, to get the details just right for Bilbo (Frodo my boy, you were quite right when you said that I wouldn't regret bringing my notebook!) and discovered that his voice had gone quite hoarse by the time the hobbits had fallen asleep in the Hall of Fire.

He and Legolas sat in relatively companionable silence, or so Harry thought, until Legolas said archly, "You and Glorfindel?"

Harry sighed. There it was again. What on Arda did Legolas have against Glorfindel? "There wasn't anything." He hoped. "Even if there was, I don't remember much." He actually remembered next to nothing about Glorfindel; he hadn't even known the bloke's name was Glorfindel until Sataressë had called him out. Then, he remembered reading about Glorfindel the twice-born balrog slayer.

"You remembered all the way back to the Age of the Lamps."

"That's because S – " Harry stopped himself just in time.

Legolas looked at him, brows raised, expectant. "Yes?"

"That's because _story_ format makes it easier to remember things." Harry hastily amended. "When it comes to personal things… I try to forget." That much was true, Harry thought with grim humor. "I'd better rouse these hobbits, for them to get some proper sleep. They'll wake up stiff the next morning if they don't sleep in a proper bed."

…

The next day, Elrond sought out Harry, sitting far back in one of the tome rooms.

"_Sataressë."_

"_Elrond?" _Harry looked up to see the half-elven Lord. It somewhat shocked him to see the usually imperturbable elf frowning with worry. _"What concerns you so?"_

Elrond gazed at Harry, looking caught between severity and worry. _"It is __**you **__I am concerned for."_

Harry winced, regretting the outburst of confession he had over a week ago. He tried to play it off. _"'Tis nothing to worry about. I am getting my memories back."_

But Elrond persisted, _"Yes, but you said it yourself, what is half a year, compared to the thousands of millennia you have existed?"_

Ignoring the question, Harry stoutly plowed on, _"Why, just by being around the hobbits and telling them stories, I feel I have gained back nearly half my memories."_

Elrond stepped closer to Harry. _"Estel tells me that you have acted strangely for a supposedly ageless being. Much like a 'rash elfling,' in his own words. And Estel does not exaggerate."_

Harry promptly decided that Aragorn needed a good hexing. _"That was over two months ago, Elrond."_

That only served to agitate Elrond further. _"And your references to time! Before, two months would have been but a breath for you."_

Tired of being hounded, Harry whirled on Elrond, hissing,_ "And what can you do for me, Elrond? Wise as you have become over the last six millennia, it is my problem and mine alone. You already have plenty of burdens to contend with; do not try to add mine to your load."_

"Perhaps I can help?"

At the new voice, Harry turned to see…

"Merlin's beard…" Harry muttered in English despite himself.

Though it was not Merlin standing before him, it would not have been so far-fetched to claim it. He carried a staff and was garbed in grey wizard robes. Grey…

"Gandalf the Grey, I assume?"

"And the Lady Sataressë?" The wizard bowed slightly.

Ignoring the prefix, Harry stared intently at the wizard garbed in grey before him. The face structure and stature seemed familiar…

"Olórin." Harry finally uttered.

Gandalf's eyes widened. Without breaking eye contact from Harry, he bowed to Elrond and murmured, "Excuse us, Master Elrond."

Elrond merely nodded and left the two, staring down at each other in an odd parody of a spaghetti western picture.

It was Gandalf who broke the silence. "I see you remember my Maia name."

"It's all I remember about you, actually." Harry said bluntly.

Gandalf's mustache twitched in amusement. "Yes. You were the firstborn of us Maiar. And of us Istari."

"_Am_ I an Istar?" Harry asked with genuine interest.

Looking thoughtful, Gandalf mused, "I cannot be completely sure. But Aragorn tells me that you are adept at sorcery, besides the ones performed by song."

"It seems," Harry's tone virtually dripped with acid, "that Aragorn's tongue is light, as of late. I must assume, then, that he is not very attached to it, and lighten him of the burden."

Gandalf chuckled. "Oh, do not blame Aragorn. He was only worried for you and sought my counsel."

"How is it that he has the time to worry for me, when there is a much more pressing matter in the form of a deceptively plain golden object borne here by a hobbit?" Harry looked sharply at Gandalf. "I've heard much of you from the hobbits; they are fond of you and were greatly distressed that you did not appear at Bree within the promised time. He may not have put it in so many words – in fact Frodo didn't even mention the ring, just disguised it as a longing to see Rivendell – but I know it was you who asked him to bring that wretched item here. And I need not tell you what dangers he went through to fulfill that quest."

Growing solemn at the mention of Frodo, Gandalf bowed his head. "Even wizards are not infallible."

Harry snorted. "And don't I know it. Tell me Gandalf, what kept you from Bree? Aragorn and I – well, mostly I – waited for nearly two months."

Gandalf's bushy eyebrows furrowed. "There will be a meeting in a few days time and the details will be revealed then, but suffice it to say I was captured."

A meeting… "You will hold a council over what to do with the ring." Harry stated. "It's obvious it should be destroyed. Why wait for counsel? 'Tis only a matter of _how _it can be destroyed."

"We wait, because Lord Elrond has foreseen other key players in this dangerous game of destiny." Gandalf sighed. "And _you_ are a Maia who should be wiser than Lord Elrond; do you not know how the ring can be destroyed? If I am correct, your past with the Lord of the Rings is deep indeed."

Drily, Harry pointed out, "I have not been around for the past six millennia, Gandalf. And I was not present the time he earned the name the 'Lord of the Rings'."

Inwardly, Harry struggled with himself; should he tell Gandalf of his plight? 'My plight can be dealt with after the ring is destroyed.' Harry eventually concluded. He asked the Istar one relatively harmless question, however.

"Why is it you wear such an old shell, Olórin? You too, are a Maia and can look as young as you like."

This time, Gandalf's mustache and beard both twitched and mirth danced in his eyes. "Wizards are supposed to be wise. In this Third Age, unless one is an elf, appearances matter much in judging one's age, and by extension, wisdom. Besides, I have lost nearly all of my Maiar powers. All the other Istari appear to be similar ages as I."

"Still, I cannot imagine why one would _willingly _choose to be old." Harry shook his head, remembering the aches and old wounds that pained him in bad weather. "Then again, eternal youth would be equally wearying, I suppose. In that case, I suppose the Dúnadain have it the best, appearing young, save their hair, until their death."

Gandalf observed Harry for a bit before softly murmuring, "Now I finally understand."

Harry gave the wizard an odd look. "Understand what?"

"Why you left all those millennia ago."

"Oh? Enlighten me." Harry too, wanted to know why Sataressë had left Arda.

"You desired eternal rest. You were weary, but as a Maia, did not have the ability to abandon life, so you chose to go to sleep, hoping you would never wake up again."

Harry felt Sataressë shift uncomfortably within him; apparently Gandalf had struck a little bit too close to home.

"Well, when this council is held, I expect an invitation." Harry said. "I know much of Sauron's history and will have the best insight as to how he thinks." Thinking over that claim, Harry amended, "Well, at least until six millennia ago."

…

Later that day, it was Legolas who sought out Harry, this time hiding up a tall tree.

"Niphredil."

"Legolas." Luckily, this particular elf didn't seem worried as he skipped up an adjacent tree and perched on a branch that was more or less of the same height as the one Harry was sitting on. _"How did you find me?"_

_"I chanced by the trees and they were all whispering amongst themselves, jealous that a beautiful being had climbed up that particular one."_

Harry rolled his eyes._ "That is just my outer appearance. Trust me when I say that my essence is quite different."_

Legolas observed Harry carefully before shaking his head once. _"I would not be so sure."_ But then he laughed. _"Then again, I do call you by the name Niphredil, a flower that contrasts so with your hair."_

Harry let out a lengthy sigh. _"Well, then, what would your name for me be? It seems that everyone calls me something different these days."_

Looking bemused, Legolas asked, _"Why on Elbereth's stars would I rename you when you have already come up with a name that matches your character so well?"_

_"Well, you keep bringing up the discrepancy between my name and my hair."_ Harry huffed. It had been the only flower he could think of in the slightly panicky moment Sataressë had thrust the controls back into his hands.

"_Well, I could call you_ seron, _if you so wish. Though people may misunderstand."_ Harry longed to beat that mischievous smile off of Legolas' face.

_"You will never let me live that one down, will you?"_

_"That depends on whether you get into my good graces again or not."_

_"You seeking me out in no way indicates that I am in your bad tomes."_

_"It does not mean you are in my in my good graces, either."_

_"A mere formality."_

…

A few day later, Harry was running out of things to do. He'd practiced his swords skills, but without anybody to test them against, his progress was minimal at best. He'd stuffed himself on delicious elven food. He'd climbed nearly every tree (or rather, jumped) in a ridiculous competition with Legolas that the hobbits had watched with great entertainment. He'd explored the woods and even cliff dove off certain areas to the horror or impressment of guests and elves in the House of Elrond. He'd avoided being alone with Elrond and Glorfindel. He'd read nearly every tome about the battles against Sauron (wrinkling his nose over the inaccuracies for the ones Sataressë had been present for).

So he'd gone to the Hall of Fire to listen to songs, but when Harry found himself getting drowsy, he went outside in an attempt to refresh himself. He missed the feeling of flying, so transfigured himself into the quasi-eagle-hawk bird again. As he enjoyed the feeling of wind in his face, he happened to hear Aragorn's hushed voice from below.

Torn between curiosity and exasperation, Harry briefly considered flying somewhere else, but curiosity won out and he perched on a nearby tree and saw Aragorn speaking with twins that could only be Elrond's sons.

"_The number of the enemy increases by the day, as do their spies."_ said one.

"_A skirmish left Feredir with a shoulder wound, but the other Dúnadain are well, and united with the other Northern Rangers." _the other with the helmet said.

Aragorn looked worried for his comrade. _"Will Feredir recover?"_

"_Aye, we took care of the wound before it bled out too much."_

"_And it was his left shoulder. He will not be able to wield two swords again as adeptly, I am afraid, but he will have no trouble using his right arm."_

Harry felt vague pity for Feredir. He had never spoken directly to the man (none of the men in Aragorn's party, actually), but it seemed he had prided his ability to wield swords in both hands.

"_But when did you return to Imladris, Estel?"_

The one who wore a helmet said with a mixture of mirth and pride, "_Estel's skills seem to have increased, Elladan. He left no trail to be followed, even without the aid of weather."_

"_No, it was the mercy to Mand – " _Before Aragorn could finish, Harry swooped down and transformed back into a human, to the shock of the twins and Aragorn's dismay.

What was Aragorn thinking, flapping his tongue at anybody who came his way? Was this some demented version of nobility, giving Harry credit and spreading news of Sataressë's supposed return far and wide? What if Sauron caught wind of it?

Standing back in his human…oid form, Harry crossed his arms. "_Go on, do not mind me. You were about to speak of me, I presume? Let us have it. Estel?"_

Aragorn's head sagged into his hands. "Ada spoke to you didn't he?"

"Yes. As did Gandalf." Harry said shortly.

There was a short silence before Aragorn stated more than asked, "You think I'm going around wagging my tongue about you to everyone I see, don't you."

Harry widened his in mock surprise. "You're not?" He went on to pointedly ignore Aragorn as he turned to introduce himself to the twins in Sindarin. _"I am known as Sataressë hereabouts, but I prefer to be called Niphredil."_

Elladan and Elrohir's eyebrows disappeared into their respective hairline and helmet.

_"Sataressë – "_

_" – the mercy to – "_

_" – Mandos' justice, yes, I have heard that title many times since my arrival here."_ Harry said with a touch of impatience. _"But pray, do not follow Estel's example and spread word of my presence in Arda, lest it reach the ears of the enemy."_

Aragorn looked indignant. _"I have only spoken of you twice, with Ada and Mithrandir!"_

_"Well, that was two times too many, as now Elrond and, if I am correct to suppose 'Mithrandir' is Gandalf's elven name_,_ Mithrandir_ both _seem to be under the impression I am unstable." _Harry snapped. He turned to the twins and smiled pleasantly. _"Despite the unpleasant circumstances, 'twas a pleasure to meet you, Elladan, Elrohir."__  
_

Nodding to the twins, Harry then transfigured himself into a doe. He could not change his gender even in _animal _form, for Eru's sake! Irritated, he pawed at the ground, spraying Aragorn with dirt, before galloping off.

Harry found galloping through the forest refreshing in a different way; he imagined Nessa dancing in front of him and felt a strange sense of nostalgia wash over him… except that was only in his dreams; the nostalgia belonged Sataressë, he expected.

So he galloped circles around Imladris until eve fell, until he heard another set of hoofbeats, but heavier, with a pattern like a steady drumbeat; this was the gait of a trained horse. The hoofbeats slowed and Harry turned to see a richly-robed, but travel worn brown-haired man upon a horse, looking at Harry with wonder.

* * *

**A/N:** I though I could keep up the update every other day thing until the start of my internship… but *le sigh* 'twas too much to expect. This chapter is mostly build up to the council.

Oh, and the ridiculousness of SOPA is back, and if the Stop Online Piracy Act is passed, all fanmade things will be banned and taken down.

Copy the url below and just remove the spaces.

petitions. whitehouse .gov/petition/stop-sopa-2014 /q0Vkk0Zr


	10. Of the Council of Elrond

**Imperative Disclaimer:** Not mine, just playing around in the sandboxes, mixing sand…

**A/N:** This Council of Elrond is more faithful to the book. I'll be vacillating between the books and movies through this fanfic in general.

When the movies came out, I knew why the 1st and 3rd movies were named as they were, but call me stupid, I had _no_ idea why the 2nd movie was called 'The Two Towers'. After reading the book's version of the Council of Elrond, I immediately knew why. If there are those who were in the same situation as I, this chapter is for you, even if I only go over it in one or two sentences.

* * *

**Back to the Beginning**

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

Of the Council of Elrond

* * *

The travel-worn man approached upon his horse. Harry did not back away – that was what the man would expect. When he looked the man in the eye, the man's grey eyes widened.

"Green eyes…"

Oh yeah. He'd forgotten to change his eye color. The man had noticed something was off, and yet he didn't have out a bow and arrow to shoot him. That was always a good thing, even though Moody would have probably disapproved (constant vigilance!).

"I have never known wild animals to stay so still when a man stands nearby." He seemed to be murmuring half to Harry, half to himself.

When the man nudged his horse further forward, Harry had to fight back the instinct to back up; the man and horse were getting too close.

"And still she does not run." the man said in wonderment.

Harry flicked his ears. He supposed that this was another guest of Elrond's. If the man had strayed this far off the path, he would probably wander for another half-day to get to a destination less than an hour away.

Since he hadn't become venison meat by now, Harry decided to do the man a favor. Not bothering to turn back into a human…oid (it would be too suspicious), Harry motioned a rough, but unmistakable, 'follow me' with his head.

The man looked perturbed that a deer seemed to be _communicating_ with him, but as Harry began to gallop away back the way he came, he nudged his horse to follow him.

Harry tried to bleat out the song of fleet feet; he didn't think it wasn't as effective as when he had been a bird, but it had been a valiant try, nonetheless.

Once they were in sight of Imladris, Harry bounded away, leaving the man staring after him, awed and bemused.

Once he was out of sight, it occurred to Harry that the man that he had guided to Imladris could have been one of the 'key players' that Elrond had foreseen. Well, Harry thought as he turned back into a human…oid, he'd see. Dusting off his robes, Harry apparated back to his chambers. He fell asleep as soon as his head touched his pillow.

Harry woke at the clear ring of a bell the next day. Blearily, for he had dreamt of Sauron again, he thought the sound of the bell rather odd; there had been no wake up call for any other day…

There was a knock on his door and stifling a huge yawn, Harry called, "Come in…"

It was Legolas, dressed in his native green and brown Mirkwood uniform._ "Niphredil, what are you still doing in bed? Today is the day of the council."_ Upon seeing Harry's disheveled state, he all but prepared Harry himself, choosing raiment of beryl green silk and some other floaty fabric which Harry didn't remember the name of (maybe it started with a 'ch'?), and shoving Harry behind the dressing screen.

Harry was so out of it he didn't even notice that he had put on a dress until it was on him and by then, even Legolas was impatient.

"What's the tearing hurry?" Harry found it easier to speak informally in Westron, especially when he was annoyed, as Legolas had taken to yanking his hair, under the pretense of weaving a circlet into his unruly locks. "And where did you get this? I don't need a crown!"

"Lady Arwen requested that you wear it to the council," yank, "and it would be discourteous," yank, "not to wear it." Yank. "And that bell that rang almost _ten_ minutes ago," yank,_ "_was the warning of the council, which," yank, "we will inevitably be late to." With a final firm tug, Legolas pronounced rather tiredly, "There. 'Tis finished."

Scalp practically throbbing, (which probably meant not a single hair was out of place) Harry groaned, "And where is this council located?"

"The summit."

Thankfully, Harry had explored the summit once, and he grabbed Legolas for a side-along apparation.

And thus, they were fortunately _not _late, though Legolas looked like he might be ill. Patting Legolas' back absently, Harry said, "'S'alright, it just takes some getting used to."

Harry looked around to see who was present. There was Elrond himself, of course, with Glorfindel to his right, and Elrond's Chief Counsellor whose name Harry couldn't quite recall to his left. There was an elf dressed to show his representation of the *Teleri elves. He saw two dwarves, Gandalf, and Bilbo sitting beside each other. Curiously, Sam was curled up in a dark corner. Were Gandalf and the other hobbits not aware of his presence?

_[*Teleri: elves who live near the sea, in the Grey Havens, located in Lindon]_

Legolas took his place beside the Telerin elf; ironically, it was directly across from Glorfindel.

The man that Harry had guided as a doe was also present, sitting a bit apart from the others. So this _was_ the key player that Elrond had foreseen._  
_

Then there was Aragorn, sitting apart from the rest.

There were two chairs left empty, one next to Legolas and directly across from Elrond, and Harry immediately knew that was the one that had been designated to him.

So, as everyone else was getting settled in his place, Harry made his way over to the far chair directly across from Elrond.

He noted that he was the only anatomically female being there. Ginny would throw a fit if she saw this; Arda was in serious need of a feminist movement.

As he swept into his seat, he saw the man from yester eve eyeing him, caught between wariness and awe.

Yes, he was wearing rather floaty clothes and Legolas had woven Arwen's circlet into his hair, so Harry imagined he made a rather impressive figure. And he'd long gotten used to the staring, even back in his own world. He just wished _he _wasn't the beautiful lady_._ But there was nothing to be done for it now, so –

"Here, my friends, is the hobbit, Frodo son of Drogo."

Elrond went on to introduce the council: the two dwarves were Glóin and his son Gimli, the elf representing the Grey Havens was named Galdor, and Elrond's Chief Counsellor was named Erestor. The man Harry had guided yesterday was a man from the south, named Boromir.

Finally, it was Harry's turn to be introduced. "And this lady is known by many titles…"

The elves of Rivendell leaned forward with interest. Obviously, since Harry had brought Frodo and caused a scene, they knew his face, but his title was a relative secret.

"…in Rivendell, we call her Sataressë, the mercy to Mandos' justice."

There were murmurs amongst the Elrond's elven counsellors and Galdor exclaimed, "As in Melfae, the Friend of Souls?"

Harry fought the urge to grimace. Yet another title. As long as he existed, he was doomed to be followed by titles. The boy-who-lived, heir-of-Slytherin, unstable liar, Undesirable #1, man-who-prevailed, savior-of-the-wizarding-world… and now, a bunch of fantastical names – even by wizarding standards – had replaced them.

Harry raised a hand to quiet the stirring.

"Enough. Sauron, hopefully, is not yet aware of my presence in Arda. He knows me by many titles, so I hope you will heretofore refer to me as Niphredil… or Holly for those who find Niphredil troublesome to pronounce. Now, Elrond?"

The elder of the dwarves spoke of how a group of them had gone to recolonize Moria and had never returned, and how a messenger from Sauron came some years before seeking a hobbit and a ring, and how they had come to warn Bilbo because of it.

And so that opened up the question as to what the identity of the ring was, that Sauron should want it back that badly. Harry already knew this part, but others didn't, and Elrond explained this in greater detail than Legolas had, from the fair form that Sauron had taken to deceive the elves to the forging of the rings, and how Celebrimbor had made the three elven rings untouched by Sauron's influence, how many of the rings were lost, and how the Kings of men became Ringwraiths.

He spoke of Númenor's rise and fall due to Sauron's lies; of the two towers built by Isildur: Minas Ithil, Tower of the Rising Moon and Minas Anor, Tower of the Setting Sun; how Minas Ithil was captured by the enemy and renamed Minas Morgul, Tower of Sorcery, but Minas Anor held strong and was renamed Minas Tirith, Tower of Guard, and how the two cities hosting a tower each had been at odds ever since; the Last Alliance between Elves and Men; how Isildur succumbed to the ring, even right when he could have destroyed it.

When he spoke of the Last Alliance, Elrond's thoughts were so powerful that even when Harry wasn't trying to use legilimency, he could see Elrond's memories.

_Bubbling lava._

_Sauron, more terrible than in his dreams._

_Narsil, shattered beneath Sauron's foot._

_A man wielding the hilt of Narsil to cut the ring off Sauron's finger._

_Círdan the shipwright, and the man, called Isildur. "You must destroy it here, Isildur! It was made in Orodruin's flames, only in these flames can they be unmade!"_

_Isildur slowly shaking his head, holding the golden ring. "This I will have as a weregild for my father, and my brother. 'Tis the only fair thing made by Sauron."_

The power of Elrond's thoughts receded, and Harry heard Elrond's voice again. "But soon he was betrayed by it to his death, and so it is named in the North as Isildur's Bane. Yet death maybe was better than what else might have befallen him."

Harry closed his eyes, the ageless being within him pained to hear such events.

"So it has been for many lives of men. But the Lords of Minas Tirith still fight on, defying our enemies. But to our sorrow, the One Ring which we thought had been lost, has been found."

Here, Boromir stood, tall and proud. "Give me leave, Master Elrond, to say more of Gondor, for that is where I hail from." He turned to address everyone in the council. "A hundred and ten days I have journeyed all alone, to seek the wisdom of the Elf-Lord Elrond. My brother and I had a dream – many times, for my brother – and in that dream, the eastern sky grew dark, with a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of it a voice cried,

'_Seek for the Sword that was broken: _

_In Imladris it dwells; _

_There shall be counsels taken _

_Stronger than Morgul-spells. _

_There shall be shown a token _

_That Doom is near at hand, _

_For Isildur's Bane shall waken,_

_And the Halfling forth shall stand.'_

"My brother was eager to heed the dream, but since the way was full of doubt and danger, I took the journey upon myself. For a few days, I wandered, hopelessly lost, but it seems that Eru smiled upon me, for a green-eyed doe he sent me to lead the way to the House of Elrond."

At this, Aragorn spared Harry a dry look before looking back to Boromir, and declaring. "And here in the House of Elrond more shall be made clear to you."

He cast a sword – not the one Harry had made for him – but Narsil's shards upon the table in the center. "For your first verse: here is the 'Sword that was Broken'. Narsil, Ilendil's sword."

Boromir stared intently at Aragorn, lean faced and clothed in a weather-stained cloak. "And what does a ranger have to do with Minas Tirith?"

When it was clear that Aragorn was reluctant to reply, Harry replied in Aragorn's stead, "He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

Legolas added rather fiercely, "He is Isildur's heir; you owe him your allegiance."

Aragorn shot them an exasperated look, and Harry gave him a miniscule shrug, signaling 'turnabout is fair play.' For his part, Frodo sprang to his feet at once, crying out with relief, "Then it belongs to you, and not to me at all!"

Turning to Frodo, Aragorn replied sternly, "It does not belong to anyone but its maker."

Few knew what they were talking about, so Gandalf said solemnly, "Bring out the Ring, Frodo, and Boromir shall understand the rest of his riddle."

Slowly, Frodo drew out the ring and placed it on the table, beside the shards of Narsil.

"This is Isildur's Bane, you say?" Boromir said doubtfully. "I have seen a bright ring brought forth by the Halfling, but how do we know it is the one?"

Harry slowly stood and began to sing the song of fire, approaching the table. All who heard the song were entranced, both by the ring, which had begun to glow, and the song. Harry focused the song on the ring and the ring only, and runes began to appear on surface of the ring. Harry – or rather, Sataressë – could read them:

"_Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-shi krimpatul."_

Though Harry only whispered the words, the whole summit shook and quivered; every elf present closed their eyes in pain and everyone trembled.

Once the quaking of the summit had subsided, Elrond said wearily, "Never before has any voice dared to utter words of that tongue in Imladris."

Harry gave Elrond a stern look. "The ring you wear now heard it before as did its maker, Celebrimbor; as its bearer, you too, should hear the One Ring's declaration of intent." He turned to look at the man from Gondor. "I shall translate:_ One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the Darkness bind them._ Do you still harbor doubts, Boromir of Gondor?"

As Harry turned heel and returned to his seat, Gandalf added, "I myself traveled to Gondor and found Isildur's very own writing confirming the same thing Lady…" his eyes flickered over to Harry," Niphredil has just proven now before our very eyes and ears. If I was sure then, I am doubly sure now, that this is indeed, the One Ring that the Enemy desires so." He turned to Bilbo. "But we are getting out of chronological order, I believe."

Elrond motioned for Bilbo to tell his story. And so Bilbo told his tale with much gusto, and Harry listened, fascinated, as this tale was new to him. When the name 'Gollum' surfaced, Harry finally understood why Aragorn had seemed so unsettled when Harry had mentioned the escape of what Harry had first understood as 'golem'.

After Bilbo's tale had finished and Aragorn and Gandalf described the information they'd extracted from Gollum, Legolas said, "I came to Imladris as an envoy to relay that Gollum had escaped our woods during an orc attack. Now that I know the full story, it grieves me indeed that I had brought such unwelcome tidings."

"Unwelcome, perhaps, but not unexpected," Aragorn sighed, "as Niphredil informed me of Gollum's escape some two and a half months back."

Gandalf said, "Well, we got out of him what we needed: how he came across the Ring, which passed into Bilbo's hands. And through him, the Enemy does indeed know the Ring had long fallen into the hands of a hobbit, for the Nazgûl were waiting to ambush Frodo, who bore the Ring. Come Frodo, it is time to describe your journey here with the Ring."

Frodo told his tale as well, though perhaps not with as much gusto as Bilbo.

Afterwards, it was Gandalf's turn: he explained his trust in Saruman had been his folly, and the reason for his tardiness was Saruman's doing. If the Great Eagle Gwaihir had not come for him, he would be trapped at the top of the tower still.

"He is no longer Saruman the White. He fashions himself not only as Saruman the Wise – a title given him long ago, but also as Saruman Ring-maker, and Saruman of Many Colors."

After a bit of shocked silence, that the most powerful of Istari had gone so awry, Gandalf prompted, "Well, the Tale is now told, from first to last. Here we all are, and here is the Ring. But we have not yet come any nearer to our purpose. What shall we do with it?"

Glorfindel spoke up, "The Ring will not be safe here in Rivendell. The Nine may have been unhorsed, but it is temporary. Soon their master will send them abroad again, back to the very place they had been unhorsed, in search for the Ring."

"And I have not the strength to withstand the Enemy forever. Neither do the other two ring bearers." Elrond said.

Though Harry was curious as to who carried Narya, he had a feeling that now was not the time to ask.

Glorfindel spoke, "If the Ring cannot be kept from him by strength, two things only remain for us to attempt: to send it over the Sea, or to destroy it."

Elrond shook his head at Glorfindel's first suggestion. "Those who dwell beyond the Sea would not receive it: for good or ill it belongs to Middle-earth; it is for us who still dwell here to deal with it."

Staring intently at the ring, Gandalf said, "The only choice is to destroy the Ring."

"Then what are we waiting for?" The younger dwarf jumped up, raised his axe and brought it down upon the ring, and shattered upon contact, throwing him back.

"The Ring cannot be destroyed by any craft that we here possess, Gimli son of Glóin. It was made in the fires of Mount Doom, and only there can it be unmade."

Boromir stirred, frowning. "I do not understand all this talk of hiding and destroying. If the Ring is as great as you say, why not use the Enemy's greatest weapon against him?"

Shaking his head, Aragorn spoke, "No man can wield the One Ring."

Elrond shook his head as well. "Nor elves."

Glóin sadly said, "I confess that the reason Balin went to Moria was to recover one of the seven dwarf rings. We dwarves are stubborn, but the Rings invoke a different sort of madness in us."

Most sadly of all, Gandalf said, "And the One Ring can even corrupt the heart of a wizard."

"And thus we return to the matter of destroying the Ring." Erestor finished.

Harry's self-sacrificing side, Gryffindor side, had half a mind to volunteer, but he, who had succumbed to the power of the Elder Wand, could hardly be relied upon. Besides, Sataressë found the ring alluring still, even though Harry, for some unfathomable reason, found it absolutely repulsive. Even if he did volunteer, he might instinctively throw it off. He and Sataressë were at opposite ends of a spectrum, but equally unreliable.

By then, it was almost noon, and Harry was very hungry; he hadn't even had breakfast. He repressed a sigh. The Ring had to be destroyed… And if the song of fire had merely revealed the hidden runes, no singing magics, much less wand-waving, could destroy the Ring, though he might as well try…

But out of the corner of his eye, Harry looked at the one race present at the Council that still hadn't been spoken for.

"I will take the ring." The voice was so soft that the voice might as well have not spoken, but a deadly quiet had settled over the Council and even the slightest rustle of cloth could have been heard.

"Though I do not know the way." Though it hardly made a difference – it actually made him shorter – Frodo had stood, but therein laid the show of his determination; willingness to bear the ring, even after all the danger he'd been through merely to get it from the Shire to Rivendell.

Overwhelming respect filled Harry.

Halflings. Hobbits.

Overlooked because of their small size and naïvette, but they had stout hearts, no doubt about it.

Elrond gave Frodo a long, searching look. "It is a heavy burden; so heavy that none could lay it on another, and I do not lay it on you. But if you take it freely, I will say your choice is right."

There was a moment of hesitation, before Frodo nodded.

Gandalf stood and smiled rather sadly down at Frodo. "I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, as long as it is yours to bear."

Aragorn had stood up as well. "If by my life or death I can protect you, I will." He knelt down on one knee and looked earnestly into Frodo's eyes. "You have my sword."

Legolas' tenor added, "And you have my bow."

The younger dwarf was looking at his shattered axe mournfully, and Harry repaired it with a silent _reparo_, and handed the axe to him, whole once more. Gimli looked up at Harry reverently and bowed, before stepping forward as well, "And my axe."

Legolas and Aragorn gave Harry a dry look and a raised eyebrow respectively, to which Harry answered both with an innocent smile.

Slowly, Boromir strode forward. "If this is truly the will of the council, then Gondor will see it done."

A sudden movement came from the corner where Sam had been huddled, cramped for hours. "Mister Frodo's not going anywhere without me!"

"No indeed!" Said Elrond, beaming. "It is hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not."

"Hey!" Merry and Pippin shot out from behind the pillars. "We're coming too!" Merry cried out. "You'll have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us." Merry postured himself beside Frodo. "We hobbits need to stick together."

"Anyway," added Pippin, "you need people with intelligence for this sort of mission. Quest. Thing."

"Well that rules you out, Pip." Merry muttered to Pippin.

Frodo looked toward Harry, who had not spoken for some time. Harry's eyes met Frodo's, and he saw a silent plea: maybe for his blessing, or perhaps for a word of encouragement.

Well, Frodo was in for a surprise. Stepping towards Frodo, Harry knelt before him, just as Aragorn had. "My voice will be with you, Frodo Baggins, whether you wish it or not."

And Harry was right; Frodo _was_ surprised, but not unpleased. "Then you're coming with us as well, Holly?" He asked with amazement.

Harry smiled wryly. "A little stroll into Mordor and a hike up Mount Doom sounds like quite the adventure. And as you know from my stories, I never liked staying in one place for too long."

He looked to Elrond, who sighed, but nodded, as if he knew that Harry would go anyways, with or without his assent.

"And with this, these ten shall form the Fellowship of the Ring."

Harry looked up and saw three pairs of eyes, two pairs grey, and one greyish blue staring holes into him.

"Sataressë." Make that four pairs of eyes; and Glorfindel's eyes were blue.

He could handle the males of the Fellowship later. Glorfindel took priority; besides, Harry had avoided a direct confrontation with Glorfindel since his return with Legolas and the hobbits and that was not fair to Glorfindel.

Excusing himself from the others, Harry took a deep breath before turning and facing the golden-haired warrior.

"Sataressë." Harry could see the warrior's distress in his eyes. _"You've been avoiding me."_

Harry didn't know what history Glorfindel and Sataressë had, but it was obvious whatever Harry was doing now was paining Glorfindel greatly. Taking pity on the warrior, Harry coaxed Sataressë out.

Sataressë opened her eyes and acknowledged, _"Yes, Glorfindel, I have."_

Glorfindel made to seize her shoulders but stopped himself at the last moment. _"Sataressë, will you answer my questions?"_

"_For you, as far as I am able, Seron, yes."_

Harry winced at the use of Seron, and Glorfindel seemed to think along the same lines as Harry, as a twisted smile appeared on his face. _"I wonder if you know what connotation 'seron' carries now, for you to still call me that."_

Sataressë answered swiftly, _"I have always thought of you as a friend, and no passage of time will change that fact."_

Glorfindel sharply parried, "_If you consider me your friend, why did you not warn me of your leaving?"_

"_If I had warned you, Seron, you would have tried to stop me, is that not true?"_

After a pause, in which Harry assumed that Sataressë had hit the nail on the head, Glorfindel asked, _"Why did you leave?"_

Smiling sadly, Sataressë answered, _"For good or for ill, I was… and still am… a Maia, and incapable of abandoning life. But my spirit grew weary. After Morgoth's defeat, I thought my duties on Arda had ended. The supposed 'gift' of immortality – much less _eternity – _can be considered a curse. Why do you think the Vala of Rest and Healing sleeps during the day? She is perpetually tired as she provides rest and healing for all who need it in Valinor."_

Blue eyes widened. _"So you asked Mandos to end your existence?"_ Glorfindel asked in a hoarse voice.

That explained why Sataressë wasn't giving Harry any information on the Vala she had been companion to, as Mandos obviously hadn't followed through with her request. Harry had done well to have Sataressë take the reigns for this confrontation; in doing so, he was learning a lot about her.

Sataressë put a finger to Glorfindel's lips._ "Peace, Seron." _Smiling bitterly, she said, _"Obviously, __the Judge of the Dead did not grant my only request of him, so here I am, sharing a body with the spirit of my incarnate, who prefers the name 'Niphredil'."_

Confused, Glorfindel frowned. _"Your incarnate?" _

"_That is a tale best saved for later, Glorfindel."_

Bitterness becoming fondness, Sataressë changed the subject. _"But let me have a proper look at you; in the time I was gone, your hröa has grown to match your fëa."_

Glorfindel's face changed from one of confusion to determination. _"Now that you have returned, Sataressë, and my hröa has matured, I intend to ask you the question that I didn't get a chance to before I died: will you deign to become my spouse?"_

Holy Hippogriffs! It had been a very _very_ wise idea to call forth Sataressë for this particular confrontation. Harry wasn't sure if he had the acting skills to pull off a successful Sataressë in the face of a _proposal. _From a _male._

But luckily, Sataressë stayed at the control panel. Cupping Glorfindel's cheek with a hand, she said, _"You've known me for far too long to not anticipate my answer to your question. I am proud of your deeds, my dear balrog-slayer, and I am sure someone more worthy of your affections will appear."_

Sullenly, Glorfindel muttered, _"Shall I take that as an 'I'm too restless to settle down' and that 'I only view you as a mother would her child'?"_

Harry almost felt bad for Glorfindel; that would be a bitter pill to swallow. Sataressë amusedly replied, _"Take it however you like, but 'tis true that I have seen your elfling years, twice. Do not expect me to become the *Melian to your Thingol."_

_[*Melian, a Maia who married elvenking Thingol, (mother of elven-princess Lúthien)]_

Sataressë retreated, and Harry said to Glorfindel, _"I must leave you now, Glorfindel, as I've others to confront to defend my decision to join the Fellowship."_

So it was an extremely discomfited Harry that returned to the fellowship, seated on the chairs of the Council; the hobbits had already long gone for lunch. There was Aragorn, Legolas and Boromir. Thankfully, Gandalf had left with Elrond.

Heaving a great sigh, Harry leaned against the table that held the shards of Narsil.

"Alright. Have at it. Who wants to complain about my decision to join the Fellowship first?"

Aragorn corrected Harry, "Not complain. Merely ask of your motives."

Harry was dismayed. "Aragorn, you're _still_ suspicious of me?"

"Not suspicious; just curious."

Harry threw up his hands. "I want to aid you. Is that too much to ask?"

"But why?" If Aragorn hadn't been showing such genuine curiosity, Harry would have hexed him for asking the favorite question of three year olds.

"I am fond of Elrond, and I was equally fond of your ancestor, Elros. As you are Elros' descendant and one of the last Dúnedain, I feel the necessity to aid you in whatever you do, Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

Aragorn bowed his head. "Do not think I am ungrateful for your aid; on the contrary, I am honored." But Harry knew that there was still a shadow of doubt, probably of whether he was entirely mentally stable or not, Harry thought sourly.

"Next?"

Legolas merely looked intently at him, before shaking his head. "You have answered one of my questions along with Aragorn's."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "And what of your other questions?"

Turning his head away, Legolas said, "I am afraid the other question will have to wait."

Finally, Harry turned to Boromir. "And what have you to ask of me, Boromir of Gondor?"

The proud warrior stood from his chair, presumably in order to look into Harry's eyes without feeling inferior as he spoke, "What skills have you to offer the company? I can understand the other halflings wanting to stay by their companion's side; it shows loyalty, and I honor that. But you… You offer a meager reason at best, and I cannot see how magic that brings earthquakes and affects your own allies will not hinder us."

Legolas leapt to Harry's defense. "Do you realize who you are talking – "

Harry cut him off. "No Legolas, he asks a perfectly reasonable question." He stared hard into Boromir's eyes. "…Tell me Boromir, are you willing to fight a woman?"

Boromir looked taken aback. "Wha – "

Harry summoned his sword from his room and a few seconds later, deftly caught it and drew it from its sheath. "I have longed to test my skills against a real warrior, and it seems that you are the lucky one I choose. Now draw your sword," Harry attacked, and Boromir drew his sword just in time to block Harry's strike. "for I am impatient to see how much I've improved."

Though it was clear Boromir was reluctant to attack a woman, he still had to defend against Harry's increasingly creative attacks. Slowly, as it was clear that defending himself wasn't helping him, he began to counterattack.

Harry grinned fiercely. "That's the ticket…" He murmured to himself in English.

Aragorn and Legolas looked on, impressed.

"Just over half a year ago, she couldn't even hold a sword properly." Legolas whispered to Aragorn.

Aragorn sighed, "She forced my hand into teaching her. I never imagined she would take to it so quickly."

"Well, she does have impressive reflexes and muscle memory."

"It helped that she practiced almost all the time."

"Could you two please stop talking about me as if I can't hear you?" Harry called back, in a deadlock with Boromir. Boromir was only a bit taller than Harry, but he was using his bigger bulk to his advantage, as if he could wear Harry down. He had another thing coming, because Harry _couldn't_ tire. Not physically, anyway.

It was cheating, Harry knew, but he whistled the most powerful stanza in song of fortitude localized to his arm and threw off Boromir's sword, and had his sword at Boromir's neck in a lightning quick move.

"Do you still think me a helpless maiden, Boromir of Gondor? I have magic," he summoned the sheath to his hand for emphasis, "at my disposal, and do not require protection. "I am aware you were going easy on me, but I am far from baggage." He turned to Legolas and put a hand on his shoulder. "Now Legolas, for your other question…" He apparated away.

Which left Boromir staring at the empty space Harry and Legolas had been in. Aragorn said to him, "You really should have gone all out, chivalry aside. That woman you just fought against helped create Middle-Earth. I do not doubt she could have sung you into a puddle."

"Ah." Boromir said rather delicately as he sheathed his sword. "But why does she act so rashly, then? If she helped create the world, should she not be more…" he seemed to search for a diplomatic word. "…Tranquil…?"

Aragorn shook his head and shrugged. "I've oft wondered that myself, so I cannot answer that particular question. Of her magic, however, I can tell you much."

"Oh?" Boromir asked with interest.

"Perhaps over lunch?" Aragorn offered.

…

Harry had apparated himself and Legolas into a nearby forest. Releasing Legolas' shoulder, Harry leaned back against a tree.

"Now, your other question?"

Legolas seemed ashamed. "…Perhaps it was correct of you to word of it as 'complaint' after all, Niphredil."

Exasperated, Harry groaned, "Stop beating about the bush and spit it out already!"

"I have no doubts of the honorable quality among this fellowship, but… propriety…you are a maiden…"

Harry's eyes bugged out. He had been aware that he was anatomically female, but he hadn't realized… those… sort of complications. Managing to not slap himself from his own stupidity, Harry forced a semblance of a smile on his face.

"Well, my magic can manage those… issues." An extremely awkward silence ensued. Harry tried to steer the subject away from the male and female part. "Besides, I've discovered that I can, in fact, go without sleep."

Legolas fell for it hook, line, and sinker. "Really? But then why do you continue to sleep?"

Harry shrugged. "Old habits die hard, I guess."

Then _he_ realized that he'd let slip something from his old world, Harry had to force himself to keep a straight face when Legolas shot him a questioning look.

"Now that I know of your worry," Harry shot Legolas a wry look, "Let us go eat. The Council has left me as hungry as a hobbit."

…

The hobbits looked heavy-hearted when the day to depart from Rivendell came. On the other hand, Harry's face looked bright. He was clad in breeches and tunic once more, as dresses were both cumbersome and impractical.

As for their loads, though everybody preferred their weapons on their person, Harry performed the undetectable extension charm (to everyone's fascination) that Hermione had used on their horcrux hunt, onto a small pack that he carried, where he stored food and materials to for camp. He ruefully wished he knew the spell that were performed on tents to make the insides inhabitable – it couldn't be that different from the extension charm – but ah well.

Elrond, Bilbo, and Glorfindel came out to bid them goodbye.

"The blessings of the Valar be upon you." Elrond's eyes lingered on Harry. "And may restoration be with you." Harry knew immediately that he was referring to Harry's – or rather Sataressë's memories.

"Frodo my boy, I expect a full account of your journey when you return!"

Though his eyes were downcast, Glorfindel made a valiant effort to sound nonchalant. _"My offer still stands upon your return, Sataressë."_

Harry smiled sadly at the warrior. As he turned to leave with the rest of the fellowship, he left Glorfindel with the last words:

_"I am Niphredil."_

* * *

**A/N 2:** And so the Fellowship of the Ring is born. Thanks for the reviews, follows, and favorites, everybody! There'll be action in the next chapter!

I'm well aware that some of you feel like this will become a cliché Fellowship + Harry story, but you have something coming if that's what you think.


	11. Of Mountains and Maiar

**Inexcludable Disclaimer:** I do not own either of these franchises.

* * *

**Back to the Beginning**

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

Of Mountains and Maiar

* * *

The weather was rather cold so the Fellowship set off at a brisk pace, with Harry often whistling the song of fleet feet, to Boromir's fascination.

"So when you sing – or whistle – any tune, there's power to it?"

Harry answered, "Not everything I sing has power. Just Songs the Valar taught me."

Gimli asked with great interest, "Is there a song for mining?"

Harry grinned; of course a dwarf would ask that. "Yeah, there is. Aulë – you would know him as Mahal – created one. But it has to be used with care, and unless you know the Song of Structure, you can't use it without cave-ins." Harry rather thought if he'd sang the song of mining without Sataressë's memories, that's precisely what he would have done, and gotten buried in rocks. He distinctly remembered dreaming of accompanying Aulë for mining and finding _something_ of significance, but couldn't quite remember what; he'd made something from it… Harry pushed it to the back of his mind when Boromir asked once more, "So, it is possible to use these songs in battle?"

Grimacing, Harry answered, "I could, but these songs were meant to create Arda, not to battle. Besides, what if you're trying to ambush an enemy? What gives you away like singing loudly? And I can only sing one song at a time." Harry shook his head. "I prefer to use my wand." He twirled the Elder Wand in a hand to emphasize his point before banishing it again.

Merry and Pippin were rather disappointed he didn't show them any more spells, but Harry had a strong feeling that he'd be performing more spells than they could count.

Every night.

"_Protego Totalum, Repello Muggletum, Salvio Hexia, Repello Inimicum, Cave Inimicum, Muffliato – "_

Harry murmured as he walked around in a circle as the others busied themselves digging into his pack to set up camp. He added an obliteration charm on their footprints, just to make sure anyone who by chance had the level of Aragorn's tracking skills, wouldn't be able to.

The series of spells reminded him of old times, back when he was Horcrux hunting with Ron and Hermione. Even though it was so long ago, it was still almost like second nature to him to walk around the camp and perform those defense spells, in that particular order, whenever he'd gone out camping with his family.

Family…

As he sat down on a blanket laid out for him, Harry looked up at the stars, trying in vain to look for the constellations he'd learnt during Astronomy.

How were they doing, back in their own world? He wondered what had happened to his physical body there. Was he in a coma? Or had he died? How were his friends and family reacting? How was Ginny reacting?

It depressed Harry to think of the possibilities and he drew his knees up to his chin, something he hadn't done for over seven decades since he'd last been intimidated by Uncle Vernon.

It had already been over half a year. If they'd buried him six feet under, then he hoped that they'd at least buried his wand with him, so if he were able to return he could blast his way out of the coffin. If not, he could just summon the Elder Wand instead. He didn't fancy suffocating underground.

If they'd chosen to cremate him… Harry shuddered.

He didn't want to think about that.

"Are you cold, Niphredil?"

Of course his first friend here would also be the first to notice. For once, Harry decided to tell the truth. "No. Just thinking about the past."

"It is no good to dwell on the past." A wizened voice joined them. "It has passed and no amount of dwelling will change anything in the present."

That was true; there were no time turners in this world.

"Holly – pardon me, it is no trouble for me to pronounce your elven name, but the others seem to address you by that – " Harry waved the wizard's apology aside.

"It doesn't matter… just… what is it, Gandalf?"

"You are a Maia… yet why do you feel so young?"

This question. Again. Harry heard Legolas move away, and he wanted to cry out 'Don't leave me alone with this old bloke!' but it was too late. Damn Arda elves. Never around when you needed them.

"I don't believe that is any of your business." said Harry coolly.

Once burned, twice shy, they say, and that definitely applied with Harry, especially concerning wizards that appeared old and wise. Harry had long forgiven Dumbledore back in his teenage years, but he'd never quite been able to forget how much the old man had hidden from him.

Gandalf gazed into Harry's eyes, "Ah, but it is, for a house divided against itself cannot stand."

"My secrets are not anything that will endanger the Fellowship." Harry said seriously.

At Harry's earnestness, Gandalf relented. "Remember, Holly, you cannot continue to dwell on the past. Nor will running from it help." His eyes pierced Harry, as Dumbledore's had done so many times. "Face it once and for all, and leave it behind."

Those words said, Gandalf left a troubled Harry.

They set a watch, but Harry did not sleep that night, because whenever he slept, Sataressë gave him dreams. Though Harry had very little idea of what Gandalf meant by "facing his past' he had a feeling that part was meant for Sataressë. Legolas, who did not need to sleep, keep vigil with him.

Therefore, there were always three people awake.

After Merry had woken him to switch watches, Pippin complained about this arrangement. "What was the point of setting a watch if you two are always awake anyways?"

Harry replied smartly, "Special training for you. We're just the back up."

Yawning, the young hobbit reluctantly sat down for watch.

Legolas whispered, "That sorcery you performed… it makes setting a watch pointless, doesn't it?"

Harry grinned. "Maybe. Still, you can't be too careful."

Smile twitching at his lips, Legolas shook his head. "You are truly a mystery."

Snorting, Harry murmured, "Trust me, I wish I weren't. I want to be a normal human."

"You sound so sure…" Legolas mused.

"I am." Harry said, with a tone that allowed no room for argument.

"…almost as if you know what being human is like." Legolas finished.

Harry very nearly froze, but then smiled bitterly. "Not ever a normal one, no."

Come to think on it – and he'd thought about it awful lot among the Weasleys or when he'd gone on muggle outings with Ginny and the kids – he'd never _had_ a normal childhood. He'd been orphaned, treated almost like a house-elf by his relatives, then had his life (or soul, in the case of his 3rd year) endangered every year afterwards. By the time he'd come of age in the wizarding world, he'd never once remembered spending an honest-to-Ilúvatar, _normal_ year as a kid.  
So he took care to give his children as normal a childhood as they could… or at least as normal they could get with their father as the hero of the wizarding world and their mother a celebrity quidditch player.

Legolas broke Harry out of his thoughts. "So you haven't dwelt among _menn_ for the last six millennia?"

Harry smiled wryly at the curious elf. "You can't wrest my secret from me that easily, Legolas. But no, I haven't spent the last six millennia among humans."

Only for the past eighty-six years, Harry thought rather guiltily.

When the sun rose, the Fellowship had to pack to journey on. Harry left the plotting of the road to Gandalf and Aragorn. After all, though Sataressë had studiously caught up to current events in Arda under Legolas' tutelage, she still was unsure of the world that had vastly changed since she'd left. And Harry had barely been in Arda for seven months. And he had never been one much for geography anyway.

When he suggested once that he could see if he could apparate with them in three groups, Gandalf shook his head.

"That method of travel acts like a beacon to fellow Maia unless masked by a much larger magic. No, it is best not to use that power unless you are within an Elven settlement."

"So Sauron knew we went to Rivendell?" Frodo asked worriedly.

"Only that a great deal of power was used nearby there, but I would hazard a guess that he suspects what happened. But all nine of his lieutenants were unhorsed and he had not the strength to come to Rivendell himself to secure the Ring."

Harry recalled that Sauron too, had been a Maia before he fell. In all probability, Saruman was a Maia as well. After all, if Gandalf was one, wouldn't all Middle-Earth wizards be Maiar?

"Then what of my liberal use of singing?" Harry asked. If his singing had put the Fellowship in danger, it would have been better that he had not come along at all…

"Middle-Earth was sang into being. He cannot detect us with the use of magic that was used to create the world."

That was good. But still, apparation was out. That would have been too easy, anyway, Harry mused, for a quest that had the whole fate of Arda resting on its shoulders.

Harry kept on trying to think up various ways he could use his magic to shorten the travel time, but Gandalf always replied that it would be a beacon to Sauron and Saruman, so eventually, he gave up and settled on using it for smaller things to ease the travel, like starting a small fire while camping, keeping the Fellowship energized, or increasing their food supplies. Harry watched in fascination as Pippin gobbled up a third pheasant leg like he hadn't eaten for days. He could eat more than Ron, this one. When Harry saw Pippin reaching for the last pheasant leg, he said, "Whoa there Pip, if you want to continue eating pheasant for the journey, best leave that for me to multiply for tomorrow."

"Aw, but Holly, can't you increase it now?"

Harry replied, "Though I'm not quite sure it's possible for hobbits to get a stomachache, I don't want to test that theory on a journey like this."

"Hmph. Spoilsport." Pippin pouted.

"Hey, remember who increases your food now." Harry half-joked. Only half; it was amusing to see Pippin cringe at the threat, and it made the other 'tall people' laugh.

After a few days of journey, during which it got colder and colder until even Harry's voice got quite worn out from singing the song of warmth, Harry gave up on singing and just conjured jar for each of them with blue fire inside.

"Gandalf?" Harry handed over a jar containing the blue fire, and the old wizard took it.

"How is it you are able to perform magic for even the most tame things?" Gandalf asked wonderingly, examining the jar and the fire within it, falling in step with Harry.

Shrugging, Harry answered, "I never took arithmancy, but my guess would be that since my wand is a lot smaller than your staff, it's easier to control power. So it can be used for a variety of things, not just… the grand and powerful blasts of magic I assume you use your staff for."

"Arithmancy?"

At his slip of tongue, Harry held back a wince (he seemed to be holding back from doing a lot of things these days), and explained as vaguely as possible, "The logic behind magic."

Gandalf frowned. "Logic? But magic just _is._ It is what brought forth the world, and what formed it."

Harry absent-mindedly combed his fingers through the lengths of his locks, a habit he had picked up after spending so much time with a long tangled mess of black hair, trying to think of how to explain so Gandalf would get off his back about his apparently strange magic. "Some use it to understand the… rules of magic."

Gandalf looked from the jar to his staff, then to the Elder Wand in Harry's hand.

"Rules, eh? I suppose it's against the rules to conjure money?"

"Temporarily, you can, but after a while, it'll just disappear; it would bring countries to ruin otherwise." replied Harry.

Gandalf nodded in agreement. "Indeed it would." He turned sharp blue-grey eyes onto Harry. "But that's assuming there are lots of individuals who can perform your brand of magic."

Inwardly, Harry cursed again. "This is merely hypothetical."

"Of course, Holly, of course." Gandalf's voice was jovial, but his eyes suggested something beneath that exterior.

Harry wanted nothing more than to snatch the warm jar back from the wizard now.

Casually, Gandalf brought back the subject to the Gamp's five exceptions of transfiguration (not that he knew the name for it). "And from what I've heard you telling our resident hobbits, I assume you cannot conjure food?"

Rather unwilling because he did not know what the wizard would wrangle out of him again, Harry reluctantly replied, "If it already exists, then I can increase it, but you are correct to assume that food can't be conjured out of thin air." It was an odd feeling; Harry had never been grilled about the magic of his world before.

"Then I suppose you can't conjure up one of those wands, then?"

At this, Harry banished the Elder Wand for safety and said, "No, something that has magical properties of its own must be physically crafted, made to last." He momentarily stopped and said, "Though I suppose it could be _sung _into creation…" mostly to himself.

"Hmm… I wonder who crafted that wand of yours… Do you recall?" Gandalf asked, stroking his beard.

Harry had a working theory that it was Mandos, but he didn't say it out loud; so he shook his head in answer. Some details didn't quite add up, and the Mandos theory just didn't feel right. From what he'd heard and gathered about the Judge of the Dead in his dreams, Mandos didn't seem like the type to he'd spare time or have the inclination to make what would probably be considered among the Valar as mere trinkets. That seemed more down Aulë's isle. But all of Aulë's creations had been grandiose; none possessed the subtlety of the Elder Wand. Nor the Invisibility Cloak. And it didn't seem like he'd have the power to make the Resurrection Stone.

When they had stopped to rest for the night, it seemed that Aragorn and Gandalf were arguing about the path to take from there: up the mountain, or through it.

"I know those caves, Aragorn – "

"You heard Glóin at the council, dwarves went missing in there!"

"I assure you that my path is different from theirs."

"Nevertheless, times are changing and foul creatures are awakening. Do you not think that what sleeps there will awaken while we – "

"What if I told you that I went through those mines in Moria naught but a few decades ago, and came out safe and sound?"

They continued to argue while Harry and Sam prepared the food. Harry performed the spell to light up the wood and multiplied their food for the day: venison and wild mushroom.

Harry felt slightly queasy as he increased the supply of venison and handed it off for Sam to prepare as dishes. His patronus was a deer, (he refused to think about the gender change at this point) and he himself had transformed into a deer. Not to mention the dreams of running with Nessa and the deer.

Everybody saw through Harry's unmasked distaste as he increased the venison, but it was only Boromir who asked, "Did the meat harm you in any way, Lady Holly?"

Instead of replying, Harry said grumpily, "How many times must I tell you to drop the title?"

Boromir shrugged. "Aragorn told me you could sing me into a puddle, so I do not dare."

Narrowing his eyes in the direction that Aragorn and Gandalf stood arguing, Harry hissed at Boromir, "I will not put up with that title at this age, and you are quite correct; I _will _sing you into a puddle if you do not drop the 'Lady' prefix." There was actually no song to sing people to puddles – songs were made to enhance and create – but if Aragorn had suggested that Harry could, he might as well take advantage of it.

Boromir looked rather taken aback at Harry's vehemence and raised his hands in defense. "I meant no disrespect… _Holly_."

Harry sighed. "Look, I know all of you are younger than me, besides Gandalf," _'and Aragorn and Legolas,'_ Harry thought to himself, "but really, I'm here for the adventure. It's been a while since I've wandered this freely, and I find I've actually missed it a bit. So for all of what little comfort everyone has, why don't we just drop the formalities? Just address me like the hobbits do." Come to think on it… "And I don't believe we've ever properly introduced ourselves, one on one; Elrond did it all for us. So greetings. My Westron name is Holly. I can't say it's been a pleasure to travel with you, but it is my hope that this will improve." He held out a hand.

Boromir looked at Harry with a mixture of amusement, puzzlement, and disbelief. Finally, seeing the resolve in Harry's eyes, he too spoke. "I am Boromir, son of Denethor. And it seems there is more to you than meets the eye, Holly."

He clasped forearms with Harry, who was once more taken aback with the forearm thing but took it in stride more quickly than he had with Legolas, who was watching the whole exchange with the eyes of a hawk.

Harry couldn't imagine why. He ignored the odd air the elf had about him as he turned to Gimli, and bowed slightly, hand on heart, as was dwarvish custom to greet others for the first time. "Though our relationship is not bad, I realize that I had not properly introduced myself to you either. My Westron name is Holly."

Gimli put his hand on his heart and bowed in return, respect in his eyes for someone who knew dwarvish custom so well. "Gimli, son of Glóin, at your service, Holly. And I believe I have never properly thanked you for mending my axe back at the Council. My deepest thanks."

"Now that you people are done introducing yourselves after over a week of traveling with one another, come eat, because the venison's ready!" Sam's exasperated voice called out.

Deciding to forego the venison, Harry settled for the wild mushroom stew that Sam had made. Aragorn, however, was constantly on alert. Which was a good habit, but unnecessary will all the spells that Harry had cast. But Harry hadn't given the Fellowship more than a short explanation of the protective and alarm spells that he'd cast over the campsite; it was no wonder that Aragorn was alert.

Finishing his stew, Harry went and tapped Aragorn out. "Go eat, we need you healthy and energetic; if this Fellowship stands on two legs, you and Gandalf are the legs. You need to rest."

Aragorn gave Harry a small smile. "If Gandalf and I are the legs, what body part would you be?"

Harry paused at that, before joking, "The opposable thumb?"

Considering him, Aragorn stated to Harry's surprise, "I think you'd be the dominant hand, actually."

Harry shrugged carelessly, but was nonetheless pleased that he was appreciated. "Now go away and eat, while I keep watch."

…

The next day, It seemed Aragorn had won out and they were going to hike up the mountain. "I know these mountains." Harry said abruptly as they arrived at the foot of one. "And I know of this mountain in particular."

Of course he did. Sataressë had given him dreams of watching Aulë build a mountain filled with a treasure with properties like titaniumn, with rarity akin to diamonds, if not rarer. Once the Children of Ilúvatar had been awoken and the adopted children called dwarves started mining, it had been named mithril by the elves.

Caradhras.

It was the same height as it was in Harry's dreams, but it had changed to become very treacherous looking indeed, with its peak now covered with snow and somewhat… darker. With a shadow over it.

Though not usually one to be trepidatious, Harry stopped and asked (in a lesser version of the Ron's Syndrome), "What sleeps under here again?"

He received no answer but a hush from Gimli. "We do not speak of it. We are going over it, not through it, so you need not worry about what sleeps beneath."

Though disgruntled that the dwarf thought he was worried, Harry did not protest as they climbed up the mountain, Gandalf first, with Aragorn bringing up the rear. Harry was second to last in the Fellowship, and a bit out of breath from singing the song of fleet feet over the whole Fellowship and still climbing.

Furthermore, there was a strong wind blowing, that carried Harry's voice away, and by mid-afternoon, Harry wasn't so much as singing as he was screaming (Harry preferred to think of it as _bellowing, _however). Legolas, who looked as if he wanted to go ahead of the Fellowship and act as a scout, took one look at Harry and immediately shut his mouth and stuck close to Harry. Harry appreciated the sentiment, but not the proximity; they were _climbing a mountain, _for Arda's sake! How helpful would it be to stick so close that there was no room to move? Additionally, Legolas' superhuman hearing was most probably suffering from his 'singing,' and he was the one person in the Fellowship who didn't tire!

Thinking back, Harry had been able to keep up with Legolas in his first day on Arda; why was he lagging behind now? It wasn't only the singing as he was climbing. Sataressë was a Maia, and if he inhabited a Maia's body, he should not tire, especially with this young characteristics.

It was because Harry had come to know that this wasn't a dream. That was what was holding him back. His _mentality_.

It was his _mind_ thinking that his body couldn't go on for a whole day hiking up a mountain singing at the top of his lungs. It was his _mind_ thinking that he should be out of breath. It was his _mind_ thinking that a he should be tired. It wasn't odd either; he had spent eighty-six years being a human, and no matter how long Sataressë had lived in comparison, for him, it was nearly his _whole life. _He had only _just _gotten used to getting over not getting fatigued over lack of sleep. How long would it take for his mind to get used to his unlimited physical endurance as well?

So consciously trying to convince to himself that he was _fine, _Harry continued to sing the song of fleet feet to keep the Fellowship somewhat energized and able to climb more quickly.

But the wind continued to waylay his plans. Harry could think that he was fine all he liked, but if his voice was unheard by any of his comrades, it was no use. So he gave up on singing, and the company's pace slowed down noticeably.

The Fellowship ahead looked at each other, concerned by the subtle heaviness in their bodies. Gandalf looked at Harry, who shook his head, and the old wizard immediately understood that Harry had stopped singing. But Song of Fleet Feet or not, they had to move on. So with a bit more weariness, the company proceeded up the mountain, passing a cove that Harry distinctly heard Sam say he wished to rest in.

As they climbed in altitude, the snow came.

When Harry saw the blast of snow from above, he immediately took a hand off the craggy rocks and summoned the Elder Wand, countering it with a blast of heat combined with the song of heat. It worked, to a certain extent. They weren't snowed on; they were rained on. It reminded him of the time he had made a bad decision to take his family on vacation to India during monsoon season. Hot, and wet. And miserable.

But better miserable than buried under the snow.

The snow became hail and pelted down with even more vengeance, and Harry's singing faltered when he inevitably paused to draw breath. Immediately the hail took advantage of the brief moment to pelt the Fellowship with painful, large bits of ice, and some of the hobbits even bled from the hailstones. Harry, having resumed his singing, looked back at Aragorn, who looked to Gandalf. In silent agreement, they changed direction, the old wizard ushering the hobbits back the way they came.

They came to the cove they had passed a while back and Aragorn deemed it shelter enough and the Fellowship crowded in. Everybody was dripping wet, and Harry wished he'd though of weather beforehand and had the foresight to perform an _impervious _charm on all of them. However, it was too late and he did what he could by drying the others and himself with a hot-air charm. Now dry and relatively sheltered with Harry's shield spell, with the remnants of heat from the hot-air that Harry had produced, the Fellowship looked much for the better, though their spirits were low.

"Well, looks like we'll have to wait the storm out." Harry started. "I'll go ahead and send word when the storm dies dow – " Harry stopped mid-sentence. He winced in realization that he _couldn't_ go, since he was all the shelter the Fellowship had besides the cove.

Legolas volunteered. "I will go. I do not have magic as Niphredil does, but elves are swift."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "And what of the snow?"

Legolas made to answer before Gimli rumbled, "It is the curse of Caradhras. It is angry that a dwarf and elf dare try and climb its slopes."

Aragorn's lips thinned. "Was the storm the enemy's doing?" he asked Gandalf.

Gandalf slowly nodded. "While Holly may not have noticed as she was busy fighting the storm, I felt that the storm was made by unnatural means."

Harry laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, I felt the snow, and from the speed it changed from snow to hail and ice, I'll bet my entire fortune that it was created by either Sauron or Saruman."

Out of the blue, Pippin asked, "You have a fortune?"

Hastily, Harry amended, "It was just a manner of speaking. Not literally." Actually yes, literally, back in Gringotts, in his own world. Harry rather thought that his guilt showed on his face, as Aragorn raised an eyebrow at him. "But that's besides the point. If we want to get over the mountain, I'll have to think of a combination of spells that'll get us safely through – "

"We will go through the mountain." Aragorn said, and Gandalf raised his bushy eyebrows.

"Why the sudden change of heart, Aragorn? As I recall, yesterday you were dead set against it." Gandalf commented.

"My stubbornness has gotten us into this much trouble, yet you bore it without complaint. Now it is my turn to return the favor."

Gandalf's beard twitched. "Well then, this place is rather cramped, so shall we?"

Once again at the forefront, Gandalf speedily urged the tired hobbits on. "Onwards, onwards. The speedier the feet, the more quickly we'll be able to rest under a solid shelter."

Now that the wind had died down, Harry sang the song of fleet feet once more, assuming that they were going with Gandalf's previous suggestion: through the mines of Moria. He knew through Sataressë that it was settled by Durin's folk, ruled by generations of dwarves mostly named Durin, but there was a major event that was escaping his mind…

Pushing that thought aside for now, Harry focused everything on thinking he was superhuman, and would not tire. He could do anything Legolas could do. Thinking that would be a good start for now. So while maintaing the melody of energy over the whole Fellowship, Harry let Legolas go ahead of him and copied his every step on the rocks. Seeing this, Aragorn snorted quietly, but Harry heard and gave him a severe look.

They wound up at the foot of the mountain again, but in a completely different place, in a place where…

"Why is the Sirannon completely dry?" Gimli exclaimed in dismay.

Gandalf knelt to inspect the riverbed, where water still leaked. A bit. "Not completely dry, no. But it may as well be. I myself remember that the Sirannon used to gush with a swift current beside the road."

They followed the riverbed for a while before splitting and hiking up rocks again. Cliffs, the Walls of Moria, greeted them, along with an unpleasant sight between them.

Harry broke off Nessa's song in his shock. "What it this? Has something dammed the water up?" Sataressë had provided him with an image of a valley before, but all he saw was a dark, black lake. "Why is there a murky lake instead of a valley?"

Gandalf replied, "I know not, but this explains why the Sirannon has dried back there. And may be a clue as to why Balin and the others could not send an emissary out for the past few years."

"This does not bode well for our entrance into Moria." stated Boromir. "Come, let us take the Gap of Rohan, the path I took to go to Rivendell."

"And took almost a third of a year to arrive." Harry pointed out dryly.

Before Boromir could retort, Gandalf cut in, "I dare not take the Ring so close to Isengard. And even with Holly's aid, it would take too long."

Peering into the ominous water, Sam muttered in dismay, "How deep is this? It may not matter much for you tall folk, but for us hobbits, the water may come up over our heads! We will have to swim!"

"Calm down Sam." Frodo chided gently. "Nobody said we had to cross directly across the lake. Even if the water does come up over our heads, I'm sure the others won't let us drown." He said this with a smile on his face, but Harry could tell that Frodo too, was worried. Perhaps as the Ringbearer, he could feel something was… off about these waters.

"We will not swim these unwholesome looking waters." Gandalf said firmly. "There is a way around it, a stair, if I recall – "

"Hey, I'm here, remember? _Levicorpus." _And Harry first sent Sam across to the without disturbing the water. All the way, Sam was windmilling his arms crying out, "Help! Help!"

And so Frodo and Merry were more prepared for Harry's solution, actually whooping and having fun being levitated.

The youngest in the Fellowship acted his age, backing up when Harry turned his wand on him. "I'll swim, thanks all the same." He tried to look brave, as if he was willing to risk swimming it. Harry knew that he was more afraid of being dangled by his ankle.

Sternly, Gandalf said, "If you swim, Peregrin Took, even if you don't drown, all the effort to keep the water undisturbed will have gone to waste! Off with you now!"

And Harry levitated Pippin across the lake, the young hobbit caterwauling all the way. Though, once he was dumped on the ground, he immediately jumped up and called out, "That was fun! Can you do that again, Holly?"

Harry rolled his eyes before brandishing his wand at the other males. "Legolas?"

The elf sighed. "You fear something lurks in the water, don't you." He stated more than asked.

"I'm not _afraid_," Harry replied, annoyed, "but yes, Gandalf and I do believe there is something in the water."

Gandalf stepped forward. "One can never be too careful. Shall we?"

So Harry cast the levitating charm on the wizard first and sent him across the lake. Oddly enough, the wizard did not dangle by an ankle; his physical reaction was merely as if it were a _mobilicorpus_ charm performed on him while he was standing. Shame. He would have liked to see the imperturbable wizard's reaction to being dangled by his ankle once. Just once.

Boromir and Aragorn were less sure, but relented anyways, and Harry used the _mobilicorpus _charm on them, for the sake of their dignity. He did the same for Gimli, though the dwarf muttered something or other about 'dwarves being made for both feet firmly to be planted on the ground'.

Which left Harry and Legolas alone. Grinning at Legolas, Harry echoed Gandalf, "Shall we?" Legolas sighed in resignation, and Harry took pity on him. "Should I give you wings, then?"

At this, Legolas' interest seemed piqued, face a tad brighter. "Long have I yearned to fly."

Transfiguration came less easily to Harry than charms, but if he'd been able to transfigure himself into a bird, then what would be the trouble of giving Legolas wings? "Well, I'm warning you beforehand that you need good balance, which," Harry hastily input when he saw the indignation on Legolas' face, "I'm sure you _do_ have, but climbing trees is different from flying." Also, Harry didn't deny that he was curious as to how Legolas would look like with wings. Not just winged arms, but arms _and _wings. Hm.

"This may feel a bit uncomfortable," Harry tapped the area of where Legolas' shoulder blades would be and extended them into wings. This was a rather more arduous task than just transfiguring arms into wings, but hey, Harry thought the finished product would make a convincing angel.

This was for his personal amusement.

Legolas grit his teeth and let out a wince as his shoulder blades and flesh extended and burst through his clothes. Harry felt a bit sorry. Maybe he should have just stuck with transfiguring the arms into wings, after all. He imagined what Legolas was going through felt a lot like Skel-Gro, but… twice as worse. But his regret faded when platinum blonde – the same color as Legolas' hair – feathers started to sprout out the skin of the extended shoulder blades. When the transfiguration had indeed finished, Legolas would have indeed pulled off the part of an angel. If his granddaughters saw Legolas now, they'd go bonkers. If only his wings were pure white…

But more importantly…

"Do you think you can you handle flying?" Harry asked.

Legolas was amazed, examining each wing with wonder. "This is… truly incredible, Niphredil."

Harry impatiently repeated his question. "Do you. Think. You can handle. Flying?"

Legolas crouched, and then shot off the ground in a high jump; when he started to fall, Harry's wand was out and ready to fire spells, but Legolas gained control of his wings and got used to flying. He actually started to laugh in delight as he flew circles around in the sky.

Reassured of Legolas' control, Harry transfigured his own arms into wings and flew across the lake, landing deftly on his feet. He wanted to enjoy flying as Legolas was, but they didn't have the time. It seemed that Legolas had realized that as well, as he too, descended and landed, though less surely than Harry had.

Pippin looked up at Legolas crossly. "You were given wings. _We_ had to be dangled over the water like fish bait, but _you_ were given _wings._"

"How come he got wings? You're playing favorites." Merry crossed his arms.

Harry shrugged, the last black feather on his arms having withdrawn. "He was my first friend in Middle-Earth." Catching Gandalf's bushy eyebrow raising, Harry amended, "_After_ I awoke once more." He didn't need the old wizard guessing that he wasn't really a Sataressë who'd lost her memories. "And Legolas won't say as much, but it's pretty painful to grow another set of limbs."

Frodo looked on admiringly at Legolas' set of wings, even as the elf was struggling to figure out how to fold them. "Pain or no, flight looks glorious." Frodo grinned, and turned excitedly to Harry. "If we survive this, do you think you could do the same for me as well?"

Harry grinned down at the hobbit. "If your pain tolerance is high enough, I'd be more than happy to." And he tweaked Frodo's nose. "Also, it's not 'if' we survive. It's 'when' we survive."

Laughing, Frodo swatted Harry's hand away.

Boromir shook his head and smiled ruefully. "You are optimistic, Holly."

Frodo's mirth faded, and Harry was indignant that his work to cheer Frodo up had gone to waste after four measly words out of Boromir's mouth. "When you get to my age, Boromir, you'll find pessimism unnecessarily tiring." Harry retorted.

"That means nothing to me, coming from an ageless being who wears a face younger than my own."

Harry shook his head exasperatedly, not seeing the exchange of glances between Aragorn and Gandalf at Harry's casual mention of 'age'.

Pippin, however, yet had his spirits to be dampened. "Look, Holly! Your namesakes!" He pointed at two towering holly trees spaced a distance apart, as if standing sentinel to something.

Like a door.

Gandalf proclaimed, "Well, here is the end of Hollin!" At Harry's curious glance, he explained, "Hollin is just another name for Eregion." Gandalf took note of Harry's of comprehension and nodded. "It was dubbed Hollin because holly was the token of the elves of that land, and they planted them here to mark the end of their domain, for the West-door was the made chiefly for their use in trade with the Lords of Moria." Looking wistful, Gandalf said, "Those were happier days, when there was still close friendship between folk of different race, even Dwarves and Elves."

"It was not the fault of the Dwarves that the friendship waned," defended Gimli.

"I have not heard that it was the fault of the Elves," retorted Legolas, having finally managed to fold his wings, and Harry thought he was rather reluctant to relinquish them.

"I have heard both," said Gandalf, "but we have not the time to spare in argument, and this matter can be resolved later. As I've told Holly before, divided we cannot stand, so I plead you two make peace for now, in order to find the door to enter Moria!"

Harry knew the true story of the start of strife between Elves and Dwarves, or at least Sataressë's personal slant on it. Elvenking Thingol had invited the Firebeard and Broadbeam Dwarf tribes to make jewels out of treasure in his country, and then commissioned some dwarves to embed a Silmaril in the most beautiful of all their crafts: Nauglamír, the necklace of the Dwarves.

Then the Dwarves, also enthralled by the combined beauty of the Silmaril and Nauglamir demanded it as payment. Which didn't really make sense to Harry… Thingol had commissioned the dwarves to make a piece of work… and the dwarves demanded that very piece of work as their payment? But Thingol had made things worse by sending the dwarves back with no payment at all. Which had, in the end, led to his downfall in the *Sacking of Doriath.

_[*Sack of Doriath: The Dwarves of the Firebeard tribe literally sacking and destroying Doriath, Thingol's kingdom]_

Harry shook his head to himself. Greed knew no bounds, whatever the race.

Even after the Sacking of Doriath, the relationship between Elves and Dwarves of other tribes had run strong, to stand against Morgoth, at least between the *Longbeards and the Elves. But it seemed that the alliance had not lasted after all. What had been the breaking point?

_[*Longbeards: a different tribe of Dwarves, who resided in Moria]_

Pippin approached the face of the rock wall between the two trees, as did his counterpart, Merry.

"So…" Pippin drew out the syllable, trying to think of a way for him to phrase the question that wouldn't make him sound stupid.

"Where's the door?" Asked Merry for him, much more direct and to the point. "I can't see any sign of it."

To this question, Gimli had an answer, albeit one that was not very helpful. "Dwarf-doors are not made to be seen when shut. They are invisible, and even their makers cannot find or open them if their secret is forgotten."

"But this door was not made a secret known only to Dwarves, it was made for trading." Gandalf said. He approached the shadow the trees two trees cast against the wall, and passed his hand over the strangely smooth surface. He started muttering in Sindarin, along the lines of _'reveal thyself,'_ and _'O friendly door'_ along with _'door of trades,' _mentioning Dwarves and Elves and the like. The wizard's magic had been reduced from song to chant; but it didn't have to have a tune. Harry rather thought that he'd prefer Gandalf's type of magic to the magic of regular Maiar, if it meant he didn't have to maintain a melody, and didn't have to even know what exactly he was saying; the wizard was practically guessing in Sindarin and Quenya to have the door reveal itself!

But it seemed that Gandalf's guessing magic had worked, as an arch of interlacing Quenyan letters appeared and spread, by moonlight.

There was a crown with seven stars, an anvil and hammer, two trees that bore crescent moons, and in the center, a single star of many rays.

"There are emblems of Durin!" Gimli cried.

Legolas exclaimed. "And there is the Tree of the High Elves!"

"And the Star of the House of Fëanor." Harry murmured thoughtfully.

"It would only have been revealed if one had spoken words now long forgotten in Middle-Earth." Gandalf admitted. "It is long since I heard them, so it took me some time to recall them."

Harry cleared his throat significantly. "I suppose I am a forgotten tome, then?" he said archly.

Turning to Harry, Gandalf said, "Apologies, Holly. You act so human that I'd briefly forgotten you were a Maia."

Harry heard the implied barbs behind his words, however. And what did he mean, Harry acted human? Humans in Arda couldn't perform magic, and Harry was the one performing magic with his wand and singing melodies all the time to keep their energy up!

Frodo was squinting up at the arch. "What does the writing say? Bilbo taught me elf-letters and I thought I knew them well enough, but I cannot read these."

"Fret not, Frodo, for these are ancient Elvish letters, and even few amongst elves can read them." Gandalf reassured him. "I will translate: 'The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter'. And beneath, it is written, 'I Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs.'"

Merry asked, "What does it mean by 'speak, friend, and enter'?"

Gimli answered, "It simply means that if you are a friend, you presumably know the password, and the doors will open, and afterwards you can enter."

"Dwarves have many different gates, some open only at different times, others only for particular persons, others by locks and keys… but this door has no key, so it is likely governed by a word…"

"But the password is lost." The dwarf said. "Narvi and all his craft and kindred have vanished from Middle-Earth."

"But _you_ know the password, don't you, Gandalf?" asked Boromir.

"No. At least, not _yet_." The wizard's brows bristled at everybody's, save for Aragorn's, reaction of dismay. Aragorn, having known the wizard long enough, had half expected this.

"What are you going to do then?" asked Pippin plaintively.

"Knock on the doors with your head, Peregrin Took," said Gandalf, "But if that does not shatter them, at least I will at least be allowed a little peace from foolish questions whilst I seek the opening word."

Not _word_ so much as _phrase, _Harry thought with amusement as Gandalf first said in Sindarin, _"Gate of the Elves, open now for me! Doorway of the Dwarf-folk, listen to the word of my tongue!"_

The door remained closed. Harry watched with fading amusement as the wizard tried different variations of the same meaning.

As the night grew deeper, Legolas took to flying once more. Harry looked up at him with a longing to feel the wind on his face as well, and finally gave in. Harry had long learnt of his own slightly masochistic tendencies, and since he had promised Frodo that he would give him a chance to fly as well, he tried it on himself, just to see how if a hobbit would be able to handle the pain. And it _was _a bit painful, as his shoulder blades split into separate bones and ground against each other as they lengthened into something akin to arms and from there to wings. His wings, per usual, were black, Harry noted ruefully. He flexed his shoulder blade area, finding it strange to have control over a whole new set of limbs.

"Ow!"

Harry exclaimed when Pippin plucked a feather from one of his wings. Glaring at the youngest in the Fellowship, Harry spread his black wings, intended both to intimidate and lift them out of Pippin's reach. Harry informed Gandalf, "I shall be in the air until you find the password, Gandalf." but he doubted the wizard even heard him.

Aragorn warned him, "Try not to fly too high; the enemy may see and come."

Harry nodded and proceeded to join Legolas in the air as Gandalf tried different things in different languages. By now, Legolas had more experience with his extra pair of limbs than Harry did, so Harry had a bit of catching up to do. Eventually, Harry got it; in the air, there was no match for Harry.

But from above, Harry saw Gandalf throw his staff down in frustration, and swooped down, concerned. Maybe he could just transform them all into birds and have them fly…? But then how would Frodo bear the Ring?

Harry ran his fingers over smooth stone. "The_ Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter._" Harry murmured in Quenyan. He turned to Legolas, who had landed down beside him. "Come to think on it, I still haven't completed studying Westron writing."

"We would have gotten around to it, had you not just _left_." Legolas said, remnants of irritation with Harry over his abrupt disappearance making an appearance.

"Oh, Mellon," Harry sighed. "I apologized already. Can't we just – " He was interrupted by a bright flash of the Star of Fëanor and backed up as the gates opened. He stared at the doors in confusion. "What did I say?"

"Mellon! 'Mellon' was the word." Gandalf groaned. "Friend. All we had to do was speak the word 'friend' and the doors would open." He sighed. "Simplicity at its finest."

As the Fellowship slowly stood up, Harry made sure that nobody had touched the lake. "You're sure?" Everybody nodded in affirmative and entered the mines of Moria, eager to get away from the dark lake as quickly as they could.

The entrance in the mines of Moria was cavernous, and every footstep, rustle, and sound in general was amplified. Harry said, "Gandalf, it's pitch black. Do you mind if I… make a bit of light?"

Gandalf answered, "Not at all, Holly, in fact, I welcome it. I was about to make a bit of light myself, and I'm sure a bit of more would go a long way among ten of us." With a soft light emitting from the tip of his staff, Gandalf led the way, Gimli at his side.

Harry muttered, "_Lumos," _and a bright light lit the way for him as well, as the now brightly lit company followed the weaving steps of Gandalf.

After a while, Frodo proposed, "Let us sit and have a bite to eat. I am rather hungry from all that watching of Gandalf working hard to find the password that Holly accidentally said," he teased the two, which Gandalf took with good sport. As the three other hobbits readily agreed with brighter countenances, Harry felt his mouth twitch. It seemed that the prospect of food would always cheer up a hobbit, he thought as he opened his pack and brought out pheasant, increased them, and heated them up for the Fellowship to eat.

After a bit a rest, the Fellowship began to travel again; after a few close calls of crumbling stone, only just saved in time from Harry's spells (_Duro!_) and by Harry's and Legolas' wings.

"Are you ever going to ask me to get rid of those wings?"

"Maybe after we get out of these mines." Legolas said nonchalantly. "They seem to come in handy."

He must be _really _attached to them, Harry thought. Shaking his head, he muttered, "Don't blame me if you get too used to them and feel different when they're gone."

"And what of your wings, Niphredil?" Legolas asked, amusement plain in his tone.

Harry reddened, as he too, had 'neglected' to get rid of his wings. "I'm used to them coming and going." Only partially true, as he hadn't actually extended another pair of limbs before…

Even as most were growing weary marching in the relative dark, nobody asked Harry to sing Nessa's song; it was too cavernous, too echoey, they didn't know what would hear them.

Finally, they arrived to a place that Gimli declared was once where guards stood, so it should be relatively safe inside. The Fellowship cautiously followed Gandalf inside.

Again, Harry did not want to sleep, lest Sataressë give him nightmares of Sauron.

Pippin, due to an unfortunate mishap with a stone and a well, was chosen to be the first guard, until Gandalf took pity on the poor hobbit and replaced him. So it was for an hour that he and Harry sat together in tense silence.

It was Harry who broke the silence first.

"You do not know the way." Harry had stalled for time before, and he knew it when he saw it.

"No, I do not." Gandalf admitted. "But I have rather good intuition, you see. So do not doubt me, _Sataressë_."

"You know I am not Sataressë. And let's put that matter aside for now, for I know you still think I am a danger to us all." Gandalf said nothing, which was as good as an agreement. Then Harry voiced what he'd been thinking for a few days.

"What do you think, Gandalf? Should I split from the Fellowship and pull Sauron's attention to me? To give the Fellowship a better chance?"

Slowly, the wizard shook his head. "Not until you meet Lady Galadriel, I think not. But from Lothlórien, that may be a thing to consider."

"Galadriel…" Harry mused. "I confess that when I first heard her name after I woke up, I had no memory of who she was. But I know of her now: Galadriel, of the Golden House of Finarfin. Taught by Melian in her elf magic. An ambitious elf-maiden."

"You say you know _of_ her." Gandalf observed. "Not that you know her personally."

Harry paused, to word what he would say carefully, and it was easier to get the nuances right in Sindarin. _"Tell me, Gandalf, if you awoke without any knowledge of the world you woke up in, and only gained memories of past events through dreams and the occasional vision, would you consider those memories yours?"_

Gandalf fell deep into thought before saying carefully, "I cannot say for sure, for I am not in your position." He glanced at Harry however, before continuing, "But it is quite queer that you possess a completely different magic than when you'd supposedly… fallen asleep. I'd heard that you'd only sang."

Harry neither acknowledged nor denied this; he just abruptly brought the subject back to where it had begun. "It does not change that we are lost. Is it that you do not know what direction we are facing?"

Gandalf shook his head. "We are facing east, but Moria is full of turns. That we are facing east does not mean that we will emerge east."

"Well, I _could_ go scout ahead for you." Harry offered.

Gandalf smiled. "I think you should rest now, Holly. If you want to return to being Sataressë, sleep will do you good."

But Harry _didn't_ want to become Sataressë. And he had a feeling that Sataressë felt the same for him. She was world weary; she no longer wanted to exist. So it was with great reluctance that Harry fell asleep on his side – wings made it uncomfortable to sleep on his back – and succumbed to Sataressë's dreams.

…

Harry woke from a fitful dream of Sauron again. It was of earlier times, however, featuring mainly Morgoth and corrupted Maiar of fire.

Gandalf had apparently decided which way to go by the _smell _of the tunnels, and was pleased, eight hours later, to see that he had done well to follow his nose, and declared the darkest of their journey over at last.

But in the end, they found a tomb; Balin's tomb. To ease Gimli's distress of not knowing how Balin had died, the Fellowship began to search for any clues or signs as to how the Dwarvish colony had fallen. They now stood in the Chamber of Records, according to Gimli.

Gandalf leafed through the big book of records, declaring most of it illegible or ruined. But the last page was 'grim reading' as put in Gandalf's words.

_"We cannot get out. We cannot get out."_

Harry blocked his ears, and though he could hear, he tried not to listen to Gandalf reading the ends of the dwarves who had come to recolonize Moria. For Mithril.

Oh, Aulë. If only you could see your children now. Harry thought back to the merry and impatient smith. And then remembered that the memories weren't his. He raked a hand through his hair, when Gandalf's commanding voice broke through his thoughts.

"Come now! Back to the hall!"

_Boom!_

As the floor beneath them shook, everybody seemed to echo what Harry had struggled to not listen to from Gandalf's reading.

"We cannot get out." It was ironic that a dwarf had written it, and a dwarf spoke it now.

There were harsh horn calls and Harry immediately went into battle mode.

Harry remembered little in the haze of battle fever; just that he had drawn his sword and fought with it and the Elder Wand, stunning and slaying orcs without mercy, and a vague memory of felling a troll after Frodo had stabbed it in the foot; locking a pair of doors shut with a _colloportus _and sealing them with iron for safety. Vaguely hearing Gandalf say to go right and down, Harry obeyed.

Right and down. Okay. That was plain enough. Lighting his wand, Harry quickly led the company down the treacherous stairs, and heard Gandalf quickly following behind him.

Gandalf was rather shaken, so it was Harry's bright light that led them.

"I heard snippets of conversation in black speech. Ghâsh!" Gandalf panted.

"Fire." Harry – or the Sataressë within him – automatically translated, as they continued their descent. It rang alarm bells in his head. Something. _Something _had happened in Sataressë's absence, and they had learnt it together and weren't remembering it.

And it was getting hotter and hotter as they descended. Again, Harry asked nobody in particular, "What is it that sleeps beneath this mountain? What happened before I woke up in Arda?"

It was Gimli who spoke, face as white as a sheet, and it wasn't in the form of an answer to Harry's question. "Durin's bane."

Harry closed his eyes, berating himself for not remembering.

He had even dreamt of it yesterday.

A fallen Maia.

A Balrog.

* * *

**A/N:** Due to the rigorous nature of this internship, I think one update a week is the most I can manage for now. Then again, chapters will normally be about half this length.

A flaw that I've come to recognize in myself over the years I've written fanfics, is that when too many characters come into play, fleshing them out becomes difficult.  
I'm writing mostly Harry's POV. If Harry doesn't notice something, I usually don't write it, unless it pertains to him and I feel it's necessary (or amusing) to write. So people who don't make any significant interactions with Harry… get very little development.

For the sake of character development, I may switch to a broader 3rd POV. But it's been literally years since I wrote fiction that way without switching POVs. Any suggestions or advice?


	12. Of Balrogs and Beryls

**Expected Disclaimer:** I do not own either of these universes.

* * *

**Back to the Beginning**

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

Of Balrogs and Beryls

* * *

"'Tis a Balrog!" Legolas cried out in dismay.

Very slowly, Harry turned around. It was like facing down a bear. If you showed fear, then the bear would devour you. If you were fearless, the bear would hesitate to attack. A vague corner of Harry's mind was incredulous for Harry's comparison of a Balrog to a bear, but the rest of his mind was in too much turmoil to acknowledge the ridiculousness of the comparison.

"A Balrog." Gandalf sighed. "Now I understand."

So did Harry.

"What an evil fortune! And I am already weary." As Gandalf faltered as he turned, Harry put what he hoped was a comforting hand on the old wizard's shoulder.

"You are not the only Maia here to stand against the Balrog, Olórin." Harry reminded him, and for what seemed like the first time, Gandalf's true smile was directed toward him.

Seemingly regaining his strength at Harry's reassurance, Gandalf ordered, "Over the bridge, the rest of you! Fly! This is a foe beyond any of you!"

There was an almost hilarious moment when none of the Fellowship followed Gandalf's command. But Pippin, in a rare moment of wisdom, was the first to follow the order, and hesitantly, the other hobbits followed him. Gimli was obliged to follow them across the narrow bridge, if only to protect them.

Boromir and Aragorn stood their ground and stood behind Harry and Gandalf.

Caught between the plurality of the Fellowship crossing the bridge, Gandalf's orders, and his pride as a warrior, Legolas hesitated further before cursing in Sindarin and following Gimli; he stopped across the bridge, literally in the middle ground, between those who had halted right at the doorway unable to leave their leader, and tall folk standing ground with their leader.

Boromir raised the horn of Gondor and blew, the challenge bellowing out and echoing throughout the cavern; at the sound, the fiery shadow of the Balrog momentarily halted.

After the horn's bellowing echo had ceased, Harry turned around and gave his sternest Sataressë impression. "Go. I will not leave Gandalf to face the Balrog alone. The sooner you cross the bridge, the sooner we leave this place."

At Harry's confident voice, the men reluctantly crossed the bridge, forcing Legolas to cross fully as well, as the bridge was only wide enough for one person. It seemed that Legolas had momentarily forgotten that he had wings, Harry briefly noted with what humor he could muster at that dire moment.

How he had kept a steady voice of confidence, Harry did not know. He just knew that the more members of the Fellowship escaped safely while he and Gandalf bought time, the better their odds were.

In any case, Harry was in better shape than Gandalf, who had not slept a wink the previous night and wore the shell of an old man.

Harry met Gandalf's eyes, and they nodded in agreement; chances of defeating the Balrog were better on the bridge, where the chasm was deep and the Balrog were most likely to perish if it fell.

So Harry, the sprier of the two, used his wings to usher Gandalf across the bridge. Halfway across the bridge, they stopped and turned to face the ever approaching fiery shadow.

Gandalf had a sword in one hand and staff in the other, and Harry who used his wings to hover at Gandalf's side, did much the same with the Elder Wand and his own sword.

"You cannot pass," Gandalf said solemnly. Along with him, Harry sang the very melody that many fallen Maiar had sung before being tainted by the proximity of Morgoth's melody. At the reminder of Ilúvatar's power, the Balrog seemed to cringe in on itself and retreated a step back on the bridge. Harry took advantage of this opening and attacked with his sword. Black feathers were flying, and Harry thought that from an outsider's point, he might resemble a demented angel, singing a haunting melody whilst attacking the demon with a blade.

The Balrog, despite the memory of his once pure self, managed to parry and defend itself; Harry still was inexperienced with swordplay, and was unused to defending against a whip. Any technique he had learned was useless here.

Meanwhile, Gandalf's words had woven themselves into the single strand the symphony of Arda's creation that Harry was singing. "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor."

At Gandalf's declaration, Harry nearly ceased fighting and singing.

The Secret Fire. The powers of _Ilúvatar himself. _Olórin was an indirect emissary of Ilúvatar, sent by Manwë, the most powerful Vala of them all.

Gandalf continued, "The darkness will not avail you. Go back to the Shadow!"

Servant of Ilúvatar Olórin may be, this was not the Olórin at his full strength before Harry; it was Gandalf, old, bent, and weakened from the previous battle a few frantic minutes before. Harry flew back and switched his song to reinforce Gandalf's power. He put all his focus in it, but he knew in his heart of hearts that it wouldn't be enough; Sataressë refused to come out, and he lacked experience.

Yet it was this weakened form of Olórin Harry witnessed bringing staff and sword together, crushing down on the stone bridge, with a power that cracked the staff. White flame, vastly different from the Balrog's tainted flame, sprung up. The bridge cracked and broke at the Balrog's feet.

With a roar that sent a wind of searing heat, the Balrog fell forward into the abyss.

But it would not go down alone.

With one last swing of its whip of fire, it ensnared Gandalf and dragged him to the edge of the bridge.

Harry immediately swooped down to free the whip wound around Gandalf.

"Fly, you fool!"

"I _am_ flying, you fool!" Harry said between clenched teeth.

"Then flee, you fool!" Even in this situation, Gandalf was infuriating.

"I am trying to _help_ you, Gandalf." Harry's eyes were tearing up; it must have been the smoke from the whip. Or it may have been from frustration; all attempts at freeing Gandalf from the whip were proving fruitless, even rope-loosening spells were not working. Harry pointed the Elder Wand at the whip. "_Diffindo!" _But the whip merely stretched. _"Relashio! Reducto! Diffindo!" _But none of the spells from his world would work. Harry hacked at it with his sword, making cuts, but there was no time to saw away at the whip.

As Gandalf began to slip off of the edge of the stone, Harry grabbed hold of the wizard's wrists, making one last valiant attempt to tug Gandalf out of the whip's clutches. His wings found the combined weight of Gandalf and the Balrog at the controlling end of the whip far too heavy and he too, began to be dragged down.

He could hear the rest of the Fellowship's cries to Gandalf, telling him to hold on, but it was all background noise. Harry was focused on one thing alone, and that was saving Gandalf. Legolas, who had remembered the use of his extra pair of limbs, flew over to help.

But before Legolas could reach them, the whip gave one last great tug and Gandalf finally slipped from Harry's hands and fell into the darkness.

Harry felt numb; he barely registered Legolas' arms around him, guiding him over to solid ground.

Gandalf had been cryptic, infuriating, and even been accusing at times, but Harry had found a degree of camaraderie in the fellow wizard. And Sataressë mourned for Olórin, fellow Maia.

A sudden thought occurred to Harry and his head snapped up, causing Legolas to withdraw his arms in surprise.

If Olórin had been truly sent by Manwë, then the Lord of the Valar would not allow Olórin – Gandalf – to die here, even if he was clad in mortal flesh. As Harry met Frodo's frightened blue eyes, pleading once more this time for an entirely different reason, he knew immediately what he must do; he gave Frodo a tiny nod.

Harry could not allow Gandalf to die.

Spreading his wings for flight, Harry promised the Fellowship, "By my life or death, Gandalf will live. We will meet with you in Lothlórien. Now go, lest there be more grief in Moria."

He met Aragorn's eyes and nodded, and the Ranger seemed to understand. He rallied the Fellowship to gather and follow him. "Come! I will lead you now!"

Harry hovered for a moment for one last look at the Fellowship – and his eyes briefly met Legolas' blue-grey ones – before he dove down after Gandalf and the Balrog.

He heard the wind whistling acutely in his ears as he accelerated to catch up to the depths of where Gandalf and the Balrog lay; it was time to face the demon of fire.

It seemed simultaneously like ages and a second to reach where Gandalf and the Balrog were battling against one another. Gandalf, battered but miraculously _still alive,_ wielded his blade Glamdring against the Balrog.

Harry could tell Gandalf was stunned to see him, to say the least, but had no time to make a fuss about it.

Once again, Harry brandished his sword and wand. "I promised the Fellowship that by my death or life, you would live, so I hope you don't make me break my promise, Gandalf."

* * *

**Fellowship**

* * *

It took both Boromir and Aragorn to restrain Legolas from following Niphredil, and they each got a face full of feathers for their troubles.

"She said she'd meet us in Lothlórien, so that is where we must go."

"So you are just going to abandon Niphredil?"

"Did you not hear her? That was her wish, Legolas, and the longer we tarry, the slimmer our chances of getting out!"

When the Maia had met his eyes, Legolas knew she had entrusted him to help the Ringbearer. Dropping his head, Legolas turned his back to the chasm, feeling his heart very nearly tear in two as he did so.

Aragorn, for his part, had put aside his grief for now and valiantly trying to spur the hobbits on, despite their shock and grief.

It took Frodo the longest to be shaken out of his grief; not only had they lost one, but _two_ of the Fellowship. He looked at Holly's bag swinging from Aragorn's arm and felt immense guilt. He knew she had gone partly because of him; his weakness, insecurity, fear. As Frodo ran, tears rolled down his cheeks unbidden.

Only after they had gotten out of the caves of Moria safely did they grieve, and even then, not for long, for Aragorn had to lead them swiftly in the direction of the forests of Lothlórien. They no longer had the safety or energy of Holly's magic, so they needed to make haste.

It was only Legolas who had the strength to feel actively bitter. If only he'd gotten to Niphredil and Gandalf in time… Just moments quicker…!

When they stopped to rest after the hard day's hike, Aragorn went to speak to Legolas. "I know you respected Gandalf and treasured Holly, but can you not swallow your sorrows for the sake of the hobbits?"

After a long silence, Legolas said shortly, "'Twas my fault."

Aragorn swallowed exasperation and argued, "You did nothing to lead things as they are now."

"You speak the truth, though it is not your intention." Legolas laughed mirthlessly. "My inaction is precisely why things are as they are now." He extended his wings and gave them contemptuous looks. "What use were these? I could have helped, but I completely forgot of them in my fear of a Balrog." Hanging his head, he folded his wings. "And now we've lost Mithrandir and Niphredil."

"They may yet live, Legolas." Aragorn stated, and reminded him, "Niphredil said they'd meet us in Lothlórien."

"I do not think you truly believe your own words, Aragorn son of Arathorn." Legolas replied.

Heaving a sigh, Aragorn said, "Think what you like, Legolas. But you should know better than I than to let your sorrows dispirit the others even more than they already are."

"Allow me this one day to grieve, and I will take up the title of warrior again." Legolas replied.

Aragorn nodded. Legolas did not speak lightly, and it was a fair point; the grief was still too near. So he left Legolas to mourn in private.

Without Holly's protective magics, it was a pathetically paranoid campsite that Aragorn returned to. His eyes flitted over uneasy faces that looked like that would get little to no rest. They had really come to rely on the Maia in the Fellowship, and Holly had been right: without Gandalf, the Fellowship was crippled. He hoped, no matter how slim the chance, that both Holly and Gandalf were alive, and that they would indeed be reunited at Lothlórien.

* * *

**Harry**

* * *

Harry's throat was raw from singing such a pure song. It was just a single melody among a chorus of thousands sung to bring Arda into existence, and he vaguely wondered what melody Sataressë had sung to create Arda; it was such arduous work.

Stunning spells didn't work on the Balrog, and neither did any other curse.

His vision was becoming hazy and he had lost track of time. Gandalf's swordsmanship had been much better than his, Harry absently noted, but Gandalf had taken a blow meant for him and was now bleeding out. More than ever, Harry needed to defeat this Balrog so he could give Gandalf emergency treatment.

And all the while, Harry wondered, why wouldn't Sataressë come out at this time of dire need?

Then again, since she knew his whole life story, she would also know that Harry was a more hands-on learner, and maybe thought that if Harry fought a Balrog, he would gain more experience.

Well, it was just a damn pain now. He had first sung the song of water to counter the Balrog's fire, then the song of ice, and even the song of fire to fight fire with fire. They all worked, for a time, before the Balrog overcame them. It was like the Balrog _knew_ that he wasn't the real Sataressë.

So Harry switched songs once more, and began to sing the song of death. It was one Sataressë used to bind unwilling spirits and carry them to the Halls of Mandos. Even though she always changed visions right before reaching the Halls of Mandos.

Perhaps it would work on a fallen Maia. After all, it wasn't impossible to slay a Balrog.

The problem was, it would inevitably take Gandalf, who was close to death, if not dead already, with him.

As Harry sang the song, he thought that Manwë better bring Gandalf back to life. Elsewise, Harry would bring Gandalf back himself, like Sataressë had with other souls. Besides, Maiar were never supposed to die in the first place. It had been Manwë's decision to send Olórin down to Arda; why did the obedient Maia have to pay for it?

Harry would have to dig up memories of weaving hröa, though, and fully grown ones, too. But perhaps… a slightly younger, if not stronger body? For Gandalf's sake?

But he was getting ahead of himself.

He needed to take down this Balrog first; take it to the Halls of Mandos for good. After fighting both Harry and Gandalf, the Balrog was already a great deal weakened, so it should be relatively easy even if his voice wasn't at its best. The song seemed to slow the Balrog down, binding him in place – that was good…

Then Harry's voice suddenly halted mid-song; what was – ?

He cursed inwardly in realization.

_Sataressë!_

It was Sataressë who was stopping him!

This was a Balrog, a tainted Maia! They were better off bound in the Halls of Mandos than allowed for their nature to be corrupted further.

During Harry's internal struggle, the Balrog begin to move again. Harry tried to force his voice to work. _Gandalf's life is in your hands, Harry. _He croaked out the song at first and his voice gradually grew stronger, but the Balrog was still able to move. Angrily, he thought to Sataressë, _'No matter how much you don't want to go to the Halls of Mandos, this is a _Balrog_. And Gandalf told us – no, _**you**,_ to _face your past_, Sataressë! Are you really that much of a coward?'_

Sataressë seemed roused a bit by being called a coward by a spirit not even an iota of her age.

In her ire, the ageless Maia proceeded to take over and sing the Song of Death to its completion, and felled the Balrog. Nearly all the weariness fell away from Harry's body under Sataressë's control; he realized the endless chasm of experience between them in sorcery and physically wielding the body. Harry could also feel her rage – most likely with him – as she watched the shell of the Balrog disintegrate. Graceful even in her fury, she gathered the fëa, the dark one of the corrupted Maia and the bright one of Gandalf to take to the Halls of Mandos.

An image of dark grey pillars came to mind and he felt the familiar feeling of apparation, and he immediately became wary.

'_You need not worry about Sauron noticing the apparation. He does not dare turn his attention to Valinor, for he fears it.'_

As what Harry assumed were the Halls of Mandos suddenly appeared, Sataressë receded back into the depths of Harry's mind.

'_I do not know why I listen to such a infantile spirit such as you, Niphredil. You forced my voice by stirring my conscience, but do not think that you will get me to change my mind about facing the Judge of the Dead. You shall face the consequences yourself.'_

Harry looked about at the grey marbled pillars, uncertain of what to do; Sataressë had never shown him dreams of this place before. Nevertheless he walked forward, one fëa in each hand. At the end of the long marble hall, there was a throne, upon which a being sat.

Upon nearly reaching the end of the hall, Harry uttered, "Mandos." This stone-faced Vala was the only one he had never seen in his dreams. His eyes flickered to Harry's torn and broken wings, blood masked by the black feathers, and Harry thought he saw concern on the Vala's face, but it was so brief that he concluded he must have imagined it.

The Vala – Mandos – stood. _"I see she has yet to forgive me."_

Despite himself, Harry snorted. _"Why on Arda would Sataressë forgive you for not granting what seemed like her only request of you? It seems that she expected it to be fulfilled as well." _Mandos said nothing, simply staring unblinkingly at Harry; shrugging off discomfort, Harry continued, _"I expect you will want her to talk to you herself, but she has left me to face you myself, because these…" _Harry held up a fëa in each hand, _"are actually the consequences of my actions."_

Mandos took a step forward. _"Do you not harbor any resentment toward me, Harry Potter?"_

Harry was rather taken aback, not just by the _non sequitur, _but by simply being called by his birth name for the first time since he'd woken up in the strange world. He supposed the first seventeen years of his life _had _been rather burdensome, but there had been joy as well, and as for the rest of his years…

Harry gave Mandos a crooked smile. _"This may sound arrogant or naïve to an ageless being like you, but for my part, I have lived long enough to look back at my past and not have any regrets." _Harry paused; that was not completely true. _"Well, I do regret not being able to see my family one last time before I woke up in Arda." _He eyed Mandos with a narrowed gaze. _"And I have many questions of you, but asking them is not my intent as of now. This," _he shook the darkened, almost charred, fëa of the fallen Maia, _"as you can probably recognize, is – was – a Balrog. And this," _he held out Gandalf's pure white fëa, _"is Olórin's fëa_. _I suppose you were aware that Manwë sent Olórin to Arda as an emissary?"_

Mandos merely inclined his head once in assent.

"_So you are aware he should not die? As long as he was sent by Ilú – "_

"_He was fated to die with the Balrog."_

Indignant, Harry opened his mouth, before the Vala continued, _"But he was also fated to be reborn as Gandalf the White."_

Harry let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"_But you must salvage or even weave the hröa yourself."_

Mandos started to walk away, but Harry asked him, _"What do I do with the fëa of this… former Maia?" _At this, Mandos stopped in his tracks, then slowly turned.

"_Did Satar not show you her memories of her duties in this Hall?"_

Harry didn't hold back; he'd come too far now to be afraid of pissing off Judge of the Dead. He bluntly said, _"This is the first time I have set eyes upon this place. And you."_

Harry had thought it impossible for Mandos' face to become even stiffer, but apparently he had been wrong. _"She did not show you a single memory of this place?" _He whispered. _"Of me?"_

"_It seems you underestimated her wroth after you broke her trust." _Harry said dryly.

To Harry's surprise, grief and regret spread and flooded the sternness in Mandos' features. He took the blackened fëa from Harry's hand. _"I will take care of this one. Go. Return to Olórin. His hröa will be knit together once more by your own hands."_

Before Harry turned to leave, he asked Mandos, _"Was it you who brought me here? I mean, to Arda?"_

Mandos looked Harry in the eyes for a long while before closing his own and sighing. _"You were fated to come here. I have no power over fate. If you truly wish to see how your family is doing, you may return here and I will show you, as well as answer your doubtless numerous questions. But for now, I believe you have an urgent matter to attend to. The gate to Arda is at the other end of the Hall. You will return to wherever you came from."_

So Harry wordlessly turned and headed back to the other end of the hall. Turning, Harry spared one last look at the Judge of the Dead – he looked both regal and lonely standing at the end of the hall – before disappearing through the gate.

He arrived back to the place Sataressë had apparated from, like Mandos had said. Back to Gandalf's body.

Carefully placing Gandalf's fëa nearby, Harry knelt beside Gandalf's cold body.

For a moment, Harry just did nothing; he had no clue what to do. Then per usual, Sataressë intervened. The difference was that this form of intervention sent Harry a barrage of visions.

Harry saw stars; he felt like he'd been smashed over the head with a hammer or some other blunt object as the memories flooded into him. _'This is your mess, Niphredil. My memories are the only aid I will give you.' _he faintly heard her say. It seemed to be Sataressë's small revenge.

Rather petty, for an ageless being, but Harry supposed he should be thankful for it not being worse, and that she showed her memories at all.

Closing his eyes, Harry sorted through the memories – not an easy feat – but he had done it before in the Pensieve and the dreams he'd had lately, albeit with only one memory at a time.

It would take more focus than Harry fancied muggle surgeons needed. From what Harry gathered in Sataressë's memories, it was a very complex process, and if so much as one strand slipped or was misplaced one of the three things would happen: Harry would have to start over knitting the wound together; the wound would grow larger; or Gandalf's body might disintegrate altogether.

Harry really didn't want to risk that last one.

There was also the innate knowledge that _his_ body might not last through the process, inexperienced as he was.

He wondered if Sataressë had purposefully bombarded him with visions so she could commit suicide by proxy.

* * *

**Legolas**

A few days later

* * *

Here he was, in the heartland of the wood elves, fabled to be the most fair of all the elven dwellings; Legolas should have been delighted.

A mere year ago, if you had told Legolas that he would come to Lothlórien unhappy, the elf would have laughed in disbelief. For how could he be unhappy surrounded by such beauty; the golden leaves; the soft carpet of grass; the lush green forest?

He had heard tales of such beauty, and it _was _beautiful, but he found little in the beauty around him to take comfort in.

Among the Lothlórien elves, they had encountered Haldir and his brothers first. They had first been curious as to what the platinum blond lumps on his back were, and when they'd found them to be wings, they were astonished and found it wondrous. But they had been less receptive to him after they discovered he possessed wings.

He had passed the River Nimrodel and felt no joy hearing its beautiful melody.

To add insult to injury, he had been blindfolded – an elf blindfolded by his own kinsmen! Though Aragorn had much to claim in that, and had that stiff necked dwarf Gimli simply agreed to be blindfolded…

But even freed from his blindfold and beholding the Golden Forest in all its glory, Legolas felt no joy.

Caras Galadhon brought him no joy.

Nothing brought him joy.

Only a grim determination to fulfill this quest.

"Well, you _do_ look miserable, the lot of you."

There were gasps at the familiar voice, and all looked in the direction where it came from.

"Gandalf!"

It was uttered by Frodo in half parts disbelief and joy. Soon enough, the whole Fellowship was in celebration; if the Golden Forest had been restoring for their bodies, this was restoring for their spirits.

The old wizard was bombarded by hobbit hugs around his waist and Aragorn's face split into a wide grin and he sighed, "Gandalf. So Holly did keep her word."

Boromir gave the wizard a wide smile. "You gave us quite the shock! Tell me, are wizards prone for the dramatics?"

Gandalf drew his bushy brows together. "I'm sure you already know that those were no mere dramatics."

Pippin looked around. "Where's Holly?"

"She said she'd meet us here with you, so she must be around, right?" Merry asked.

Aragorn guessed, "Is she in council with the Lord and Lady?"

At this, Gandalf grew grim. "It is thanks to Holly that I am alive and well… But… it was not without great cost."

The Fellowship was stunned, and Legolas' felt his worst fears had come true. Gandalf cleared his throat and said stoutly, "Well, Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel await." He nodded to Haldir. "Master Haldir, if you would please?"

So now they stood before the Lord and Lady of the forest. Each were greeted in turn. Everyone, save Gandalf, seemed awed. Even Legolas was awed by the presence of the two ancient elves.

"Ah, so Gandalf has ruined the surprise, has he?" Celeborn's eyes had a knowing look.

Gandalf chuckled. "Nothing like coming back from the dead to surprise one's comrades."

"Sit now beside my chair, Frodo of the Shire!" Celeborn said. "Welcome son of Thranduil! Too seldom do my kindred journey hither from the North." Legolas inclined his head, but his eyes showed a sadness that Galadriel did not fail to miss.

"Welcome, Gimli son of Glóin! It is long indeed since we saw one of Durin's folk in Caras Galadhon. But today we have broken our long law. May it be a sign that though the world is now dark, better days are at hand." Celeborn greeted, and Gimli bowed low.

When everybody was seated, Celeborn said, "Gandalf arrived earlier today, and has not yet told us the tale of your journey here, much less how he came to be separated from the party." Here he glanced briefly at Galadriel. "Or how a Maia was lost."

Legolas felt a squeezing pain in his chest. Was that natural?

Gandalf let Aragorn recount what had happened; and at the mention of a Balrog, Celeborn was dismayed. "Long have we feared that under Caradhras a terror slept. Had I known that the Dwarves had stirred up this evil in Moria again I would have forbidden your passage here." Here he spoke directly to Gimli.

For the first time, Lady Galadriel spoke. "Blame not the followers; 'twas Gandalf who led them." Here she cast a stern glance at Gandalf before turning to Celeborn. "Do not repent your welcome of Gimli, Celeborn. Had we been exiled from Lothlórien, can you guarantee that you would not wish to look upon our ancient home, though it had become an abode of dragons?" Galadriel looked at Gimli. "Dark is the water of Kheled-zâram, and cold are the springs of Kibil-nâla, and fair were the many-pillared halls of Khazad-dûm before the fall of the mighty Dwarven kings."

Legolas recognized Dwarvish when he heard it and he chanced to look at Gimli.

Gone from Gimli's face was the aggravation and sadness, replaced by wonder and overwhelming respect, that an _elf_ of all people would show him kindness and understanding. Gimli placed a fist over his heart and bowed. "Yet fairer still is land of Lórien and the Lady Galadriel."

For the first time, Legolas felt warmth toward Gimli. He had thought the dwarf stiff-necked, but it turned out that the pride of both races had blinded them. He had thought it odd when Niphredil had belittled the animosity between him and Gimli, but now he understood what petty things they were, hindering them from getting to know each other person to person.

After the meeting, Lady Galadriel sought Legolas out.

"You carry a great sorrow, Legolas son of Thranduil." she stated. "Perchance the loss of the being who granted you those wings?"

Even though he knew it was a show of great disrespect, Legolas hung his head and turned away. Nevertheless, Galadriel gently took his hand and led him to her mirror. "Would you take a look, Legolas?"

The famed Mirror of Galadriel. One that showed the future. Legolas looked at Galadriel, uncertainty showing in his blue-grey eyes.

He was tempted to look. Oh, so tempted. To be able to take comfort in knowing what possibilities the future might hold.

But a voice he thought sounded like Niphredil seemed to say, _what is the fun in knowing things beforehand?_ So with great effort, Legolas resisted the temptation and bowed to Lady Galadriel. "Elven though I am, I would not deny the future its unpredictability."

Galadriel briefly looked taken aback, before she smiled. "You have courage, Legolas son of Thranduil; you are the first among the few I have offered, to resist catching a glimpse of the unknown. If you have made up your mind, I will not insist." She looked thoughtful for a while before finally saying, "But perhaps I will offer a word of caution. Do not let the future you think awaits you make your decisions for you."

Hours later, Legolas was still thinking about what she had said. He knew the wisdom of Galadriel was cryptic, but this was… oxymoronic.

Inevitably, Legolas' thoughts wandered back to Niphredil, as he sat alone, avoided by his kinsmen either for his wings or his gloomy aura. Then he heard familiar heavy footfalls that stopped near him.

"She was a stout-hearted maiden. I may not have known her as long as you have, but her selflessness knew no bounds." Gimli sat down next to him.

They sat in silence, and they must have looked a comical pair; a long-bearded dwarf and an elf with wings sitting by each other, but Legolas found comfort in the dwarf that he had previously been at odds with.

The next day, the Fellowship sat around a round table, to discuss whether they should split from here. Legolas had little to offer, but he listened all the same.

Gandalf said, "I know your duty lies with Gondor, Boromir. But I fear that between Aragorn and I, only one of us can accompany you, for the other must guide the Ringbearer. What are your thoughts on this, Frodo?"

"You have done your best to support me this far." Frodo looked around the table. "All of you. And I cannot bear to choose between Gandalf and Aragorn, you've both helped me so much. I leave the choice to you two." He looked at Aragorn, who looked torn. "I understand if you choose to aid Gondor."

"Why not come with, Frodo?" Boromir asked. "Gondor is on the way to the death-trap that is Mordor."

Frodo flinched, and Gandalf looked sternly at Boromir. "Do not frighten him, Boromir."

"I am merely letting him know that Gondor is willing to provide him shelter and protection. And mayhap we can…" Boromir abruptly cut himself off, before switching tracks entirely. "As Ringbearer, Frodo should know what he is getting into."

"But your method of – "

"I know." Frodo interrupted Aragorn. "I know what I'm getting into. I knew full well what I was getting into the day I volunteered. And," Frodo looked Boromir in the eyes, "I appreciate the invitation, and little of the lands of Middle-Earth I know, but I believe there is a shorter path to Mordor, across the Anduin River."

Legolas, who had been silent until then, spoke up. "Why not think on this as we travel down the Anduin? The river runs south all the same."

"Well said, Legolas, for we have prepared boats for you." Everybody turned to see Lord Celeborn approaching the table. "If you had not come to a decision, my counsel would have been to travel by river. We will furnish your Company with boats, light and small, so you will have no trouble carrying them."

"Thank you." Aragorn's voice was filled with relief, for having postponed the decision. Legolas could tell the Ranger was troubled deeply.

"Galadriel and I would like to invite you to a feast before you leave."

Everyone murmured their assent.

…

Long he may have lived, but Legolas had never quite experienced a somber affair claiming to be a feast such as this. But that suited him; he didn't feel much like feasting anyway.

He merely talked to Gimli of Elven culture, which now that the dwarf had had a taste of, he listened quite avidly to.

After they had finished dining, Lady Galadriel stood and said, "We have prepared gifts for you. First our cloaks…" Elves began helping fasten cloaks around each member of the Fellowship. Legolas felt his wings rustle uncomfortably under the cloak, but he was rather relieved that his wings would be hidden from prying eyes. "They will keep you hidden. And next will be for each of you, in accordance to need." She gave Aragorn a sheath inlaid with many gems and etched elven-runes. "This will go with Narsil, when it is reforged." And she pinned a great stone of clear green to his lapel. Words were exchanged and Aragorn bowed.

She gave Boromir a belt of gold, and Merry and Pippin small silver belts, and Sam a box of Lórien's earth. Next was Gimli. "And what gift would a Dwarf ask of the Elves?"

"None, Lady. It is enough for me to have seen the Lady of the Galadhrim, and to have heard her gentle words." Gimli murmured.

The Elves all looked astonished, and Galadriel cried, "Let none say again that Dwarves are grasping and ungracious! Yet surely, Gimli son of Glóin, you desire something that I could give? Name it, I bid you!"

"You have commanded me to name my desire, so a single strand of your hair I name, but do not dare ask. For it surpasses all the gold of the earth as the stars surpass the gems of the mine."

To everyone's surprise, Galadriel unbraided her hair and laid in Gimli's hand three golden hairs. She merely smiled as Gimli stammered his thanks.

She turned to Legolas and her smile became sad. "Alas, your heart's desire is beyond my power, but a bow of Galadhrim will serve you well throughout the journey."

"'Tis an honor, my Lady." Legolas murmured.

To Frodo she gave a small crystal phial, from the fountains that catch the light of Eärendil's star; it would shine brightly when needed in the dark.

Then, the Lord and Lady bid them farewell.

On the walk to the boats, Legolas asked Gandalf, "I know this is a difficult question, but I ask of you, Mithrandir… tell me of Niphredil's last moments."

Solemnly, Gandalf replied, "I'm afraid I was not conscious for them. I suffered heavy injuries, ones that my body could not have failed to bleed out of; but when I woke, I was unmarred. Something no other Maia but Holly could have done, I think." He took something out of his sleeve. "This, and all her clothes were in a heap beside me, as if she were there one moment, and had become thin air the next." Gandalf handed a beryl over to Legolas and and looked sorrowfully at him. "I fear that she may have vanished from Arda once more."

Looking down at the emerald in his hand, Legolas felt numb; he could remember the time he'd finally lost patience with Niphredil's bangs and retrieved his mother's elfstone to pin them back like it was yesterday. He remembered the satisfaction of seeing it in Niphredil's hair. It had looked right, somehow; suited to Niphredil's eyes, down to the exact shade of green. It had felt right as well. The elfstone seemed better off put to use in the hair of the fairest being in the Third Age he had seen, rather than just sitting unused in his mother's dresser, gathering dust after its owner had gone to the Halls of Mandos in the late Second Age.

But here the elfstone was again, sitting in his hand, a painful reminder of his loss of his mother.

And now of Niphredil.

He clenched his fist around the elfstone.

Then he'd caught sight of the white snowdrops. Legolas fell behind the rest of the Fellowship. It occurred to him again, that the white flowers were so ludicrously at odds with Niphredil's appearance, that he laughed aloud.

At the sound, the others turned around. But now Legolas was not laughing; tears were beginning to fall down his face. Aragorn muttered something to the remaining Fellowship, and understanding came over them; they looked away as the elf wept.

Legolas silently wept over the young spirit who had hastily supplicated Niphredil as her name. Over the times they had shared.

Over the realization that he had fallen in love with her.

* * *

From afar, Galadriel watched Legolas' form.

_"Are you sure you are content with this?"_ Galadriel turned. _"Leithiatar?"_

* * *

**A/N:** Legolas angst galore! Worry not, I will switch back POVs and show what happened between the two days that Harry spent knitting the hröa.


	13. Of Personas and Perceptions

**Indispensible Disclaimer: **I don't own Rowling's or Tolkien's works.

* * *

**Back to the Beginning**

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

Of Personas and Perceptions

* * *

Harry stepped out of the shadows and met Galadriel's eyes squarely with his own. She _was_ beautiful, he would give her that, but she was also formidable in a way that reminded him of Sataressë. Which brought out his defiance.

"Whyever not? Gandalf's return has brought them some degree of hope, and in the meantime, I will draw Sauron's eye."

Galadriel continued to hold Harry's eyes. "I was speaking of the Prince of Mirkwood. You too, saw his reaction to the elfstone."

Harry wanted to look away, but he felt the first person to look away in this confrontation would come out as the loser. "Yes; he would not have let me go. So I chose to let the Fellowship think me departed instead."

Galadriel arched an eyebrow. "Do you not consider his feelings?"

Harry resented her doubt. Legolas was his first friend, his first ally, first _face_ he had seen in an unfamiliar world. Of course he cared. Harry could not deny that his decision to deceive the others of the Fellowship was a hard one. Especially when Legolas had wept over the snowdrops. Legolas would grieve, yes, but the Elven prince wouldn't fade over someone he hadn't even known for a year. He was too strong for that.

Galadriel, though unable to read Harry's thoughts, seemed to guess them anyway.

"Legolas is strong, yes, but such a loss always comes as a shock."

It took much of Harry's willpower to not clench his teeth. "What are you implying, Galadriel?"

"Nothing that is not already there." Galadriel replied smoothly.

"You have been trying to guilt me into revealing myself to Legolas these past few days." Harry smiled grimly. "Your ability to scheme behind the veil of the gracious lady persona you have woven for yourself has not changed, I see."

For a fraction of a second, Galadriel froze, before giving Harry a sad smile. "Persona… Yes, I admit that I have woven a persona for myself. It was a mixture between Melian and the Leithiatar I had admired. It was what I aspired to become." Here Galadriel gave Harry a sharp look. "But you are not one to speak of personas, for I see you covet many yourself."

There was a brief but tense silence before Harry relented. "I should have known you would realize. Tell me, Galadriel. What do you see when you look upon me now?"

"A mere shadow of the Leithiatar I once knew."

Harry nodded lightly; that much was to be expected. "Go on."

"One rash, quick to temper, carefree in the face of danger."

Harry paused; Galadriel had never seen him in danger. She must have gleaned his Holly persona from the minds of the Fellowship. "That cannot be all the Lady of Galadhrim sees," Harry encouraged with grim humor.

Galadriel inclined her head. "A powerful but young spirit that was forced to take up the mantle of leader, hides beneath the carefree persona."

This hit closer to home and Harry had to check his occlumency shields for any holes. He found none and motioned for Galadriel to continue.

"And underneath that, a selfless being who feels unduly responsible for the fate of others."

Harry had suffered the saving people spiel countless times from Hermione. "Any other lurking personas?" He found it difficult to keep his voice light.

Galadriel paused thoughtfully, as if weighing the wisdom of speaking her true thoughts. "All these personas are to mask that as of now, you are a surprisingly fragile being, unsure of what she is doing in Arda, ready to shatter at any moment."

The naked truth struck Harry with all the bite of a Balrog's whip. Harry clenched his fists behind his back. "Any other insights?" His green eyes glittered coldly.

Undaunted, Galadriel answered readily, "None that I have gleaned." Examining Harry with keen eyes, Galadriel whispered, "But you feel very… human, Leithiatar. Or should I call you Niphredil?"

Harry threw his head back and laughed. The next words were spoken by Sataressë. "You were always very perceptive, Galadriel. You have gleaned when even your son-in-law Elrond was unable, though that may have been because my incarnate deliberately misled him."

Galadriel's eyes widened a fraction. "Leithiatar…" she breathed.

Sataressë took Galadriel's hands into her own. "Do not take my incarnate's harsh words to heart; you have indeed become your persona of understanding and generosity." She smiled. "My incarnate is still young. Not even a century old, still at the tender age when elflings seek their identity. How much more would it be for Niphredil, being a newborn Maia?"

Harry resented the comparison to a newborn, but he grudgingly supposed it was true, especially considering his inexperience with Maiar magic. And comparing their mental age gap…

"You speak of an incarnate…" Galadriel started. "Perchance, a reincarnation?"

"Of sorts, I suppose." Sataressë drawled.

What did Sataressë mean, that he was _sort of_ a reincarnation of her? Was he, _Harry Potter_, a reincarnation of Sataressë? But she'd never died in the first place! Had she? And why had he been sent back to Arda, leaving behind _his_ body, and instead entering Sataressë's hröa?

Hearing Harry's thoughts, Sataressë said swiftly, "But this is a matter first to be cleared with the Judge of the Dead before it can be openly discussed." Emerald eyes darkened. "Which may very well be never."

Sataressë's tone left no room for discussion, so Galadriel complied and spoke no more on the topic, merely asking, "What will you do now? Will you stay for a few days?" The hope in her voice was almost tangible.

Smiling sadly, Sataressë replied, "How could my incarnate bear to rest when the rest of the Fellowship toils so?"

"Tell her to rest easy, as the river route they've chosen will be the smoothest part of their journey yet." If Harry didn't know better, he'd think Galadriel was begging.

And it bothered him to be standing and doing nothing when he could already see the Fellowship climbing onto the small boats in preparation to row down the river. Even from this distance, he could see the weary lines of Legolas' winged shoulders. It made him feel guilty, and for a moment, he wondered if it would have been better to let the Fellowship know that he was alive. Even Gandalf thought him dead, though that was entirely by accident.

* * *

**Harry**

A few days before

* * *

"Blast!" Harry cursed. A particularly thin strand of hröa had slipped between his still inexperienced fingers and vanished, along with all his previous work.

He'd practiced weaving hröa from scratch and had deemed himself somewhat ready, but now that he was working on knitting together Gandalf's wound, the pressure had risen exponentially. Not to mention mending tears in a hröa was radically different than knitting one from scratch. This was already his fifth try.

It was impossible for him to mend a wound using his wand, since his world's magic didn't work on corpses. Which Gandalf currently was.

But Mandos had said Gandalf was fated to be reborn as the Gandalf the White.

Harry _hated_ relying on foretellings, but he knew he would succeed in this endeavor, even at the risk of his own body. But he didn't know what would happen to his fëa, much less Sataressë's fëa. How was it that two fëa could exist in one hröa, anyway? Or were there really two fëa? He wasn't originally from this world, so he might not even _have_ one. Was he just leeching off of Sataressë's fëa?

He set those questions aside for later, most preferably when someone was available to answer them.

If he succeeded at this endeavor, that was.

Harry had gotten the hang of making hröa from scratch, so instead of trying to _mend_ the wounds, he would knit _on top_ of previous layers. Long since realizing that it had been too ambitious of him to even _imagine_ himself knitting Gandalf a whole new younger hröa, he'd given up on that idea… but another one had taken its place: he could strengthen a hröa's outer layers, since the base structure was already there.

The daunting part would be completely unraveling the damaged layer of the hröa. Once unraveled, if he messed up in the remaking process, it was very likely that he'd either have to petition Sataressë to fix his work, or die trying to fix Gandalf's physical body.

Inhaling deeply, Harry began to unravel the top layer of Gandalf's hröa. When he reached Gandalf's hands, he saw a glint of red, and rolled his eyes upon spotting a ring of power inset with a ruby. So _Gandalf_ was the bearer of Narya. Harry hadn't noticed it even once. The old fox.

Harry finished unraveling the first layer of the hröa and fought the urge to groan when he saw there were rips on the second layer as well.

Three layers and three Sindarin curses later, the tears were gone, but now Gandalf's hröa was practically transparent.

Harry steeled himself by giving himself a pep talk. _Alright Harry. Making from scratch is much simpler than fixing holes. Just build on top of the foundation. You can do this._

Knitting a whole layer of hröa from scratch, much less _four_, took a lot more out of Harry than he expected.

If you'd had asked Harry what he thought he'd be doing a year before, knitting would have been the _last _thing he'd have answered with. Actually, it wouldn't have even been on his radar. Merlin, it would have been the last thing he'd even thought of even _Ginny_ to spend her time doing!

Least of all knitting _bodies._

Though to be fair, it wasn't knitting so much as it was weaving. No clacking needles or yarn involved.

And by the time Harry was finished, _he _was looking transparent. And getting more transparent by the moment.

Hastily, Harry grabbed Gandalf's fëa. For a panicky moment, he had no idea what to do, before he intuitively just placed it over Gandalf's mouth and simply _willed_ the hröa to take a breath.

It was precisely that moment that a blinding light flashed, and two things happened: Gandalf was newly clad in pure white robes with a new staff laid upon his chest. And Harry's physical body disappeared. Completely.

It wasn't at all like being a ghost. Ghosts were still visible. Harry couldn't see his body at all. No light of a fëa, no nothing. So it was just oddly his consciousness floating about, with no corporeal body. Harry would have crossed his arms grumpily, if he _had_ a body.

So it was a rather glum Harry who watched over Gandalf as he slowly rose and began to comprehend what happened. How much the wizard comprehended, Harry didn't exactly know, but Gandalf knew that Harry had disappeared, from the look on his face when he spotted Harry's clothes and sword. Harry was somewhat gratified to see that the old wizard looked a bit saddened as he picked up the emerald that Legolas had used to pin back his bangs.

When he still had a body.

_Now what, Sataressë? _Harry thought grumpily. What on Arda could he do without a body? He couldn't sing, he couldn't weave his own body, he couldn't hold a wand… what on Elbereth's stars could he do _without _a body?

Sataressë thought back, faintly amused, _I do not think I shall tell you. After all, you learn better by experience, and I find it rather enjoyable seeing you flounder about._

Great. His counterpart enjoyed watching him suffer. Nothing like sharing a mind with a sadistic ageless being.

_But I suggest you follow Olórin._

Though Harry saw little point in following someone when he had no body, what else would he do?

So throughout the day, Harry followed Gandalf as the wizard scrambled over rocks and hills. One convenient thing, he supposed, was that he didn't have to climb over rocks, but he got tired of merely being conscious to watch an old/reborn wizard hiking through the mountains and woods. So he might as well do something useful in the meantime. While reciting Arda's history to himself, Harry unconsciously floated down from bird's eye view to what would normally have been his eye level.

Near the end of the day, however, Harry noticed the change.

Huh.

After night fell, and subsequently the sun rose and he saw the barest outline of his hands, he figured out the reason why.

_Why didn't you just tell me that the body-disappearing act wasn't permanent, Sataressë?_

There was no reply, and Harry supposed that Sataressë either hadn't heard him, or was purposefully not answering him; he highly suspected the latter.

But he felt a liquid-silk texture in his barely visible hand.

A small part of his mind registered that the Invisibility Cloak must be an exception to the laws of nature, as he was not yet corporeal. Or rather, _it_ had made an exception for _him_. But the rest of him knew that he had to make a choice.

He could reveal to Gandalf that he had only temporarily lost his body.

Or he could do as they had briefly discussed in Moria, and he could distract Sauron, away from the Fellowship. But Legolas, protective older brother figure as he was, probably would vehemently disagree to his gallivanting off alone.

Harry knew that he could choose the middle road and only reveal himself to Gandalf, but he didn't know how good of an actor Gandalf was. His initial mistrust of Harry had not been so well hidden.

So Harry swung the cloak over his shoulders, hoping that the Fellowship would find it in their hearts to forgive him once this was all over.

Harry had been correct to assume that Gandalf's destination had been Lothlórien. Legolas had told him of its golden leaves and the ethereal beauty, and the stories had not been exaggerated, Harry thought as he looked around in awe.

By this time, Harry's body had become fully solid again, and with a bit of relief, he had silently conjured clothes again, remembering to summon the sword he had forged. Maybe it was time to think of a name for it.

After regaining his solid body, Harry had also become wary of any sound he might be making. Harry had greatly improved his stealth in the decades of possession of the Invisibility Cloak, but after gaining superhuman hearing and being around superhuman peoples, he'd become unsure of what was audible to whom.

That made him very paranoid once he'd entered the Lórien, since it was Elven territory.

But it seemed either his trusty cloak or his stealth had not failed him, or meeting Gandalf was diversion enough, for when the Wood Elves came to greet him, none heard or noticed Harry some distance away.

A dark-haired elf, seemingly emerged from his surroundings as he drew back his hood and greeted Gandalf. "Mithrandir!"

Gandalf greeted the elven male back in kind. "Ah, Gwaeron. It has been a long while."

"Yet it seems not to me." The male that Harry now knew was Gwaeron stated. "But time runs differently for different places and different races."

"True." Gandalf acknowledged. "Time runs more… quickly outside of the Golden Forest."

Another elf emerged from seemingly from the forest background. Harry started to think the elves had a camouflaging cloak or some other. "Mithrandir. Well met."

Gandalf turned to the elf and nodded in greeting. "Gellui."

"Why are you alone, Mithrandir?" The brunet elf's countenance was faintly worried. "We had received word there would be ten of you."

"Suffice it to say we were separated. I will explain later to the Lord and Lady." Gandalf's tone had a note of finality in it indicating there would be no further discussion on the topic. "Judging from your question, I presume the rest of the Company has yet to arrive?"

"They have not." Gwaeron affirmed.

Seemingly the more disturbed of the two elves that Gandalf had been separated from the rest of the Fellowship, Gellui motioned. "'Twould be wise to follow us quickly; even in the safety of the Golden Woods, we must not tarry. These are dark times."

"Yes. Dark times indeed," the old wizard agreed solemnly, no doubt remembering the disaster that had been the mines of Moria.

After Harry's loss-of-body experience, the incident in Moria seemed like a lifetime ago.

Perhaps it was, literally.

Even without singing Nessa's song, Harry had proven to be able to keep up with the best of elves, so the peaceful and smooth path through the woods was a cinch for Harry.

After a few hours, they had arrived at what looked like a tower made by nature itself; forest green in color, almost mountainous in stature, and from what Harry's hawk-like vision could tell, moulded out of earth. Harry supposed it was the wall guarding the elven haven he'd overheard to be Caras Galadhon.

After another hour, they arrived at the gates of Caras Galadhon; many lamps hung from the grand gates of the great wall, and if not for Sataressë's dreams, Harry would have been overcome with awe much like when he'd first seen Hogwarts from the boats.

In fact, he _was_ overcome with awe that he almost missed his chance to slip in through the gates. He barely made it, just before the gates closed after the elves and Gandalf, Despite himself, Harry gazed about in awe. He had seen nature of the like in his dreams, but it was the first time with his own eyes. If the outer parts of Lothlórien had been otherworldly, this was absolutely _ethereal_.

Wound around every pale tree trunk – mallyrn, his brain absently supplied – were stairs, spiraling upwards into structures that were incomparably more elegant than his world's tree houses, and into the golden leaves. Performing a disillusionment charm on himself so there was no chance of his Invisibility Cloak flying off in his planned exuberance, Harry swung up onto an empty staircase to get a better look at the houses.

He spotted one particularly big deck supporting what looked to be a cross between manor and a castle, and had a feeling that the Lord and the Lady of the forest lived there.

Sure enough, the elves led Gandalf up the tree. His auror instincts (aka, curiosity) getting the better of him, Harry silently leapt onto that particular platform.

"And who might you be?"

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin at the voice. He checked his own body to make sure he was still invisible, and he was. He turned to the voice and saw a elven woman with golden hair, clad in white. She was of great beauty, but Harry recognized her face from Sataressë's dreams.

Galadriel.

"My power allows me to feel all who enter Lothlórien. But your presence only just appeared a few minutes ago."

Harry immediately winced at his mistake of choosing the disillusionment charm over his Invisibility Cloak. He'd forgotten Galadriel's gift, which had only grown in the some six millennia Sataressë had been gone. He supposed it was also partially due to the Ring of Power that twinkled upon her finger.

He was snapped out of his reverie at Galadriel's voice, which may have been serene but had a subtle underlay of warning. "I ask again: who are you?"

Internally sighing, Harry revealed himself.

Galadriel's eyes widened. "Leithiatar?"

Harry endured the different name patiently, and said steadily, "Go and greet Gandalf first. He knows not that I am here, so take care not to mention my presence."

He summoned the Invisibility Cloak and disappeared under it, just before Celeborn stepped out onto the platform.

"Were you talking to someone?" He asked,

Galadriel's face was inscrutable as she smoothly said, "Do you mistrust your eyes, Celeborn the wise?" Celeborn looked as if he was about to answer an affirmative when Galadriel said, "Come, I feel Mithrandir's presence."

Harry had followed them to see Gandalf, but the wizard had merely said that it was a tale for later, when the rest of the Company was present.

Galadriel reassured him they were making their way to Caras Galadhon and would arrive soon.

Harry secretly breathed a sigh of relief when he heard Galadriel's words and followed Gandalf as he went down the stairs to surprise the Fellowship.

Harry closed his eyes in pain when he'd seen the horror spread across the Fellowship's faces at the news of the 'great cost' of his resurrection.

Well, it was an inconvenience for him, but not quite so great a cost; he'd only lost his body for a couple of days… Harry thought until he saw the Fellowship's faces – especially Legolas' face. Then Harry realized what the great cost for himself was: the pain of knowing that he was intentionally paining others.

Somewhat heavy hearted, Harry followed the Fellowship up the stairs to the place where Galadriel and Celeborn dwelt. Leaning against the wall, invisible, he listened with half a ear to the events that had taken place in Moria and the journey to Caras Galadhon.

After the meeting that could have gone worse, Harry kept eyes on each member of the Fellowship as best he could, short of cloning himself. Yet he could not resist the urge to follow Galadriel as she bid Legolas to come with her after the meeting.

"You carry a great sorrow, Legolas, son of Thranduil." Galadriel stated. "Perchance the loss of the being who granted you those wings?"

Harry was surprised to see Legolas hang his head and turn away from Galadriel. Sure, he was close to Legolas, who had been very protective of him and mentored him in the ways of Middle-Earth, but the Legolas _he_ knew would never have risked to be as impolite to someone who was known and respected by every Elf on Arda.

Nevertheless, Galadriel gently took Legolas' hand and led him to what looked like a bird bath, which, upon second inspection, was actually a basin upon a stand.

It dawned on Harry that this was the famed Mirror of Galadriel and immediately, the Sataressë in him knew that Galadriel had brought Legolas to her mirror in the hopes of showing Legolas that his Maiar friend was still alive.

Harry was furious with Galadriel. What did that harpy in disguise think she was doing?

Said harpy in disguise asked serenely, "Would you take a look, Legolas?"

Legolas' indecision was as palpable in the air as it was on his face, torn between temptation and trepidation. Finally, between the warring of the two emotions, a third one emerged, victorious: courage. It shown on Legolas' face as he said, "Elven though I am, I would not deny the future its unpredictability."

Harry could not have felt prouder of his friend than at that moment.

But he clenched his teeth when he heard Galadriel's 'advice' or rather, _hint_ to Legolas.

He smiled when he saw Gimli and Legolas put aside their differences. That he hadn't had a chance to get rid of Legolas' wings was his biggest regret, Harry realized when he saw how the other elves were wary of the prince, presumably for his wings.

It was Boromir Harry took note of next; he was acting strangely. Harry remembered that Boromir had advocated to use the ring against the enemy at the Council of Elrond; after meeting Galadriel's eyes, Boromir had seemed ashamed, and perhaps a bit afraid.

Seeing Boromir's odd behavior, Harry at last sought out Galadriel.

"I had forgotten of your ability to penetrate through thoughts." Harry drew back his hood and undid the clasp of his Invisibility Cloak, sliding it off, noting with satisfaction how Galadriel barely held back a flinch at his sudden appearance. He truly loved his cloak.

"Leithiatar." Galadriel's face was composed once more.

Harry started circling around Galadriel. "Tell me, Galadriel. What have you gleaned from Boromir's thoughts, for him to act so strangely?"

Galadriel stood, straight and proud as a queen. "I merely drew his attention to something already lingering in his mind."

Abruptly stopping in his steps, Harry turned sharply to Galadriel. "You _drew_ his attention to his desirous intentions toward the Ring." His voice was filled with disbelief.

Galadriel's posture remained relaxed. "Merely to warn him of going astray."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "You have, of course, considered that if his thoughts had not already dwelt on it before, they would now? And perhaps the Ring would notice?"

Eyeing Harry sternly, Galadriel said, "Do you still take me for the elfling you once knew, Leithiatar?"

Harry refused to feel abashed, albeit he had just accused an elf who had lived millennia more than he of not knowing what she was doing. He stood his ground. "Boromir is now agitated, and that helps nothing. Gandalf will keep him in line. He will not go astray."

Galadriel held Harry's eyes. "If you are sure." There was a significant pause. "…Leithiatar."

Harry's only answer was to disappear under his cloak and go back to keeping tabs on members of the Fellowship. His displeasure toward Galadriel lessened when he saw her – just barely – resist the ring when Frodo had offered it to her.

He watched on as the Fellowship dined with Celeborn and Galadriel; he watched on as they were given the camouflage-y Elven cloaks, and each member of the Fellowship, save for Gandalf, given his gift. He was aware, of course, that Aragorn loved Galadriel's grand daughter Arwen. He was somewhat jealous that the Elven smiths made such a grand sheath for when Narsil was reforged; the sheath that he had given Aragorn, with its single white tree, looked extremely drab in comparison. It heartened Harry that Narsil wasn't reforged yet. He was somewhat amused when Galadriel forced Gimli's request out of him and at its contents. He was not so heartened when he heard Galadriel's words to Legolas.

And they were now at the present, watching the Fellowship paddling down the river, to continue their journey.

As Sataressë returned the control panel to Harry, he knew exactly what he had to do to keep them safe.

* * *

A/N: sorry this update is late folks! Can't promise it won't happen again, but I'll try my best!


	14. Of Plans and Pursuit

**Irrefutable Disclaimer:** The Harry Potter universe and Tolkienverse do not belong to me.

A/N: Iamsosorrythisissolate!

* * *

**Back to the Beginning**

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

Of Plans and Pursuit

* * *

Galadriel seemed so disappointed at the thought that Sataressë would leave immediately that the Maia asked _[read:commanded]_ that Harry stay for a few days. So Harry reluctantly kept far away from the control panel as the uncomfortable girl talk ensued. Granted, it was far from normal girl talk, considering the two "girls" were thousands of years old. In fact, it was actually a bit morbid.

"So Oropher died during the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. He was not so unpliant as I thought."

"But Mirkwood marched ahead without waiting for Gil-galad's command, and he was slain for it." Galadriel shook her head.

"Ah, Gil-galad. When I left, he had built a Ñoldorin Kingdom for himself. Such a promising elf he was. Now barely any Ñoldor remain in Arda. And Gil-galad perished in the Last Alliance?"

After an hour of listening to how mutual acquaintances had met their untimely ends, Harry drifted to sleep. Unlike the history lessons with Legolas, how certain elves and their descendants died wasn't something Harry likely needed to know. If something that concerned Sauron came up, he was sure Sataressë would tell him of it. Or at least wake him up to hear it.

And eventually Harry did wake up.

But it was not to the talk of Sauron.

It seemed an infinitely more terrifying sight: he was sitting and looking up at Celeborn. If Sataressë hadn't still been in control, he would have hyperventilated at waking up to such a scene. From his excellent peripheral vision, he could see Galadriel sitting and smoothing out her skirts.

"So you _have_ returned, Leithiatar." The Lord of Galadhrim was calm.

Dangerously calm.

Sataressë too, was calm, but smiling serenely. "Come, come, Celeborn. You must have suspected as much when you heard there was a Maia in the Company. How many other Maia clad in flesh do you know of?"

"Elrond named you as Niphredil." Celeborn countered.

"And most of the time, she is who I am." was the reply. As a member of the third, or rather, second-and-a-half, party, Harry thought it an accurate, if not cryptic, statement. After all, he _was_ at the control panel most of the time.

It barely registered in his mind that Sataressë had referred to him with the incorrect pronoun.

Meanwhile, as if he knew that he wouldn't receive an answer if he questioned such an ambiguous statement, Celeborn changed the vein of his questioning. "Why does the Fellowship think you dead?"

Nonchalant, Sataressë shrugged. "Mithrandir assumed me dead and told the rest of the Fellowship his assumptions. Then they simply took it for the truth." Slightly sardonically, she added, "And who would _ever_ doubt Mithrandir?" It occurred to Harry that perhaps Sataressë was still a bit irritated over being forced to apparate to Mandos' Halls due to Gandalf's temporary demise.

"So you are deceiving them." Celeborn sounded faintly disapproving.

Raising an eyebrow, Sataressë asked, "Surely you do not think I let the Company think me departed for no reason, Celeborn the Wise?"

This silenced Celeborn for a moment. Finally, the Lord of Galadhrim asked, "Then what will you do now, Leithiatar?"

Galadriel cleared her throat significantly. "She will stay in Caras Galadhon for a few days."

Celeborn shot his wife as close to a withering look as any elf's could get.

Sataressë (or was it Harry?) snorted at the sight in amusement. "Being her spouse, Celeborn, you should know better than I that once Galadriel has set her mind on something, nothing short the destruction of Arda will deter her." The Maia informed the disgruntled silver-haired elf. "You will have to put up with me for a few days, but no longer." Regarding Celeborn thoughtfully, Sataressë tilted her head. "But I must say," she expressed, "you are much altered in your manners toward me. What brought forth the change? I do not believe it to be the tides of time."

Resentfully, Celeborn said, "You abandoned Arda in a time of need."

"Celeborn!" Galadriel cried out reprovingly.

"Is that what you truly think?" Sataressë said sharply. Harry could feel the thrum of Sataressë's anger humming through his veins. "Though I may have been Mandos' companion at one point, I do not share his burden of foresight. Had I been privy to the fact that Sauron would rise again, I would not have left." Sataressë whipped around, turning pointedly away from Celeborn. "Come, Galadriel. It seems that your _husband the Wise_ needs time to sort out his thoughts."

Shooting her husband a look somewhere between exasperation and pity, Galadriel looped her arm through Sataressë's and they walked away, leaving Celeborn to his thoughts.

…

Mealtimes with the rulers of Lothlórien were tense affairs, with Celeborn's subtle jabs at the unknown whereabouts of Sataressë during the past six millennia from Arda and Harry's rapidly decreasing patience, for Sataressë had retired from the control panel on the second day, her reason being, Harry suspected, that she was weary of tolerating Celeborn's ire.

From Sataressë's memories, Harry knew that Celeborn despised deception in any form, a trait that he shared with Harry himself. But keeping Sauron's big flaming eye off the Fellowship was something only _he_ could do, and if deception was necessary, then so be it.

After spending some time observing Galadriel behind the veil of Sataressë and as himself – Galadriel could tell who was who quite well by now – Harry knew what had changed in the ancient elf; if he'd imagined that Galadriel had looked a shade paler after her encounter with Frodo and the Ring, he was sure of it now.

Sataressë had seen it many a time before in other Eldar and Galadriel showed the same symptoms; Galadriel was fading.

Harry was worried despite himself. Nenya would stave off the fading process for a time, but the one Ring had to be destroyed, and once the deed was done, the magic in the Rings of Power would rapidly diminish.

Harry knew better than to confront Galadriel about it. Instead, he confronted her husband.

"Galadriel is fading."

Celeborn turned around sharply. "What?" he snapped.

If not for the gravity of the situation, Harry would have rolled his eyes. "You heard me the first time, Celeborn." After a moment of silence, Harry continued, "I assume Galadriel did not want you to worry, but she will have to sail shortly after the Ring is destroyed."

"_If _the Ring is destroyed." Celeborn countered.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "You know it must be destroyed. Really, I wonder at your title, Celeborn the_ Wise._ At times like these, 'Celeborn the _Wishful'_ better suits you." Tone becoming more candid, Harry continued, "As I am now, Galadriel will not listen to me," _'Since she knows that I am not the Leithiatar she respects,' _Harry added silently, "so as her husband, it falls upon your shoulders to persuade her to leave as soon as possible."

Celeborn looked torn.

Harry took out his Invisibility Cloak. "I believe my job here is done. Give my well wishes to Galadriel in my stead." Harry gave the silver-haired elf a warning look. "Do not leave anything out." After a thoughtful pause, Harry said, "Tell her… I will see her again in the Undying Lands." Sataressë shifted within him at the promise of going to Valinor once more, but Harry ignored it as he threw his cloak around his shoulders and disappeared.

* * *

**The Fellowship**

* * *

As the Company had traveled down the river, many times Gandalf exercised caution – he'd learnt _something_ from the Balrog – while Aragorn chomped on the bit. After butting heads several times, eventually, they came to a compromise: starting in the early mornings and stopping as soon as it got dark.

Though the Fellowship felt a lot safer with Gandalf, they still sorely missed Holly's presence: and not just because of her magic. Her good humor and wit – albeit somehow odd – were among the other things they missed. She had carried with her a fierce protective presence.

The younger and less sensible hobbits _[read:Pippin]_ lamented the fact that food was running low, even in the seemingly bottomless bag.

During the daytime, Legolas was determined and relentless, and during the nights, he was in low spirits, clutching desperately at the elfstone he had given Holly.

Aragorn, seeing the drastic mood swings in the normally imperturbable elf, placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I am sorry for your loss."

For the longest time Legolas said nothing, and resigned, Aragorn made to leave.

"I loved her."

Aragorn was not surprised at the sudden confession; anybody with half an eye could see the feelings Legolas had harbored for the Maia.

"But she trusted me with Frodo's safety. I will see Frodo destroy the Ring."

Aragorn eyed the Elven prince before prompting, "And afterwards? What will you do after the Ring is destroyed?"

Legolas shook his head. "I do not know. Most likely I will return to my own Elvenkind. Among the wood elves, where I belong." There was some truth to that. He did not know what else he could do. He had honestly not thought beyond getting Frodo safely to Mordor, no matter what the cost.

As if Aragorn knew Legolas' growing recklessness, he cautioned, "Do not do anything you will regret."

Legolas smiled, "Worry not, Estel." He clenched the elfstone tightly, thinking grimly to himself, _'There is nothing more to regret.'_

At length, Aragorn retreated to where Frodo lay awake. "It is not your turn to watch, Frodo. Get some rest."

With Frodo too, Aragorn got a shake of the head. "I can't. I'm worried. Lady Galadriel's mirror – "

Aragorn held up a hand to stop Frodo from speaking any further. "Dwell no more on those visions. They are mere possibilities, and show the past as much as they do of the future."

But Frodo could not hold back, "So when I saw Holly fighting with a sword, was it showing the past?"

Aragorn was at a loss for words. Holly had most definitely been abysmal with a sword before he'd taught her… then again, Frodo had only witnessed her fight after she had been taught how to properly wield a sword. And to Aragorn's knowledge, Holly had never gone out of Bree during her stay there. Against his better judgment, he queried, "Did she look awkward when she fought with the blade?"

Frodo looked confused. "No."

Aragorn frowned. "What blade was she using?"

Not knowing where these questions were headed, Frodo answered unsurely, "I'm not entirely sure, I think the blade's hilt looked different…"

Furrowing his brow further, Aragorn asked, "What was she fighting against?"

Confusion likewise furthering, Frodo answered, "A dark figure, I think… but I'm not sure."

"And did she have an elfstone – an emerald – in her hair?"

"I…" Frodo desperately tried to remember. "Her hair was flying all over the place, and the mirror was so small. But I don't think so."

Aragorn's head was spinning. One thing he knew for sure was that Legolas should never get wind of this. He would gain hope, possibly in vain, and if the vision proved false, Legolas' heart would be broken, perhaps beyond repair.

In a low voice, Aragorn said, "Frodo, listen to me carefully. Tell Gandalf if you must, but never repeat this to anyone else, especially Legolas. Can you promise me that?"

Frodo too, had become aware of how much Legolas had cared for Holly. "So you think that it's a vision of the past?" The hobbit's hopes sank with every word he spoke. She'd returned Gandalf to them, at the cost of her own life.

Shaking his head, Aragorn said, "It does not matter. It is not for us to dwell upon the workings of Maiar. If she didn't reveal herself to us, it means she is otherwise occupied or that she had her reasons not to." He considered a bit before adding, "That, or the vision will never come to pass."

Though Frodo could not reconcile Holly with Aragorn's views of Maiar, he could understand the very real fear of the last reason: Legolas would be devastated.

* * *

**Harry**

* * *

It was near impossible to apparate to a location that he'd recalled from Sataressë's memories; the landscapes had altered too much. In the end, he'd simply apparated to the foot of the northern mountain – mountain of Angmar – where he'd first encountered Aragorn and the other Dúnedain Rangers.

To Harry's knowledge, apparating was a magical "beacon" that would draw Sauron's eye; though it would also alert Gandalf, Harry trusted the old wizard to have enough sense to keep it quiet from the rest of the Fellowship. And even if he couldn't keep it a secret, the Maia-in-disguise couldn't well drag the Fellowship to the area he was apparating; that would endanger the whole Fellowship, not to mention compromise the whole mission.

Now, all he had to do was apparate every few meters…

…and after a day of apparating and starving (when would he ever learn to bring food with him when he was far away from civilization? He still acted before he thought, Harry reflected ruefully) it was back to fighting an army of what looked like orcs, but these were rather larger and uglier. And more intelligent.

Having picked up Black Speech in the dreams that Sataressë had oh-so-generously imposed upon him, Harry found out that these were a newer and nastier breed of orc called Uruk-hai.

Brilliant.

Whoever had created them – it couldn't be Sauron, who was simply a flaming eye with no corporeal body at this point – had a grotesque mind. These creatures looked like still-wet paper mâché made from swampy trash. And smelled like rotten eggs blended with spoiled meat.

As he reduced one Uruk-hai to ashes, Harry's mind dwelt upon possible culprits; and having dismissed Sauron from the list, there was only Saruman left possessing the knowledge and motive to create Uruk-hai. Saruman, Ring Maker, of Many Colors. He wondered which of the Valar had sent Saruman. There was Morgoth himself, a former Vala who had powers of creation greater than even those of Aulë, but he was safely chained away in the center of Arda. Harry knew that Sauron had been a Maia under Aulë.

Judging by the pattern, Harry suspected that Saruman had also been sent by Aulë; there seemed to be a tendency of creativity going terribly awry.

Well, Gandalf had now taken Saruman's place as The White Wizard, so there were no worries on that point.

Though it was definitely a plus to have drawn Saruman's attention, as of the moment, Harry's primary goal was to draw Sauron's singular, flaming eye's attention onto himself.

He needed to get closer to the eye.

Without causing collateral damage.

It was time for phase two of his plan.

Harry transfigured himself into a bird. A big, white, swallow-like bird that would stick out like a sore thumb amongst the dark birds that were Sauron's spies.

He'd draw _their_ attention, and by proxy, Sauron's attention.

* * *

**Legolas**

* * *

Legolas suddenly cocked his head as he heard a flock of birds nearby, and looked up. Gandalf and Aragorn looked up as well; they knew to heed the senses of an elf. Sure enough, a murder of crows flew past them, heading north.

Gandalf looked slightly disapproving for some reason, and Aragorn looked worried. With an unsettled face expression, Frodo asked, "Those are the Enemy's spies, aren't they? Why are they headed north?"

"Valar knows." Gandalf still seemed faintly disgruntled. "But we'd best take advantage of their distraction."

And so they drifted downstream, until the Anduin became wide, rushing rapids.

At this indication, Legolas was the first to react and paddled to the left, making for the riverbank. The others followed suit until they were all safely settled on land.

"I believe we now have a decision to make." Gandalf declared.

Aragorn and Boromir respectively made expressions of dread and anticipation. Legolas understood Aragorn's doubt; he was a man of his word, and had promised to protect Frodo. But the heir of Elendil also had an obligation to Gondor. To lessen Aragorn's hesitation, Legolas murmured, "Worry not, Estel. I will stay by Frodo's side until the very end."

Aragorn did not look as comforted by Legolas' words as the Elven prince would have thought.

Gandalf declared, "I am inclined to stay with Frodo. Aragorn, it is up to you what path you take from now."

Aragorn looked torn, and it was only after Frodo assured him, "Go to your people, Aragorn. They need you, and while I can't say your presence won't be missed, I'd much rather you follow your heart than your word to me," that the Ranger looked less conflicted, and finally nodded.

"I am sorry that I cannot keep my word – "

Frodo smiled understandingly. "Like I said, I'd much rather you keep true to your heart than your word."

Legolas looked to the uncharacteristically quiet dwarf. "Gimli?"

The dwarf spoke to the hobbits. "You cannot all four of you travel together. That would be too dangerous, now that the Fellowship will be splitting up. It would be better if you split up as well."

The hobbits looked to one another, troubled. Sam was the first blurt out, "I go wherever Mister Frodo goes."

Boromir attempted to convince Frodo once more, "Frodo, Gondor is not that much out of the way to Mordor. Are you sure? We could all travel together safely, without having to break any words or obligations."

Legolas saw a glint in Boromir's eyes that belied the Gondorian's true intentions, however, so he swiftly intervened, "The sooner the Ring is destroyed, the better." The elf turned to the hobbits as well. "But I do agree with Gimli; it would be better off if you split up. Forgive my saying so, but I believe it would be rather difficult protecting all four of you."

Frodo, who seemed to have been deep in his thoughts, roused from them and addressed Merry and Pippin. "I want you two to go with Aragorn and Boromir to Gondor. You'll receive protection there, and perhaps be able to go back to the Shire – I'm worried for our home… it may not be as unaffected as I thought."

Merry was the first to be able to voice his thoughts coherently. "Are you sure you'll be all right, Frodo? We promised to go to the end with you as well."

Pippin echoed Merry's thoughts, albeit in a different way. "You'll have that Gollum at your tails, you will! You need us!"

Legolas looked to Gandalf, who indeed made the final decision. "Frodo is wise to send you both to Gondor. And you shall go if," he glanced sharply at Boromir, "Boromir allows it."

Boromir crossed his arms. "I will do anything to protect the hobbits. But I will have you know that I am still against the Fellowship splitting up."

"You would be." Gandalf muttered under his breath, and had he not been an elf, Legolas would not have heard it.

So it was with many hobbit sniffles, hugs, and promises that they would meet again, that the Fellowship split into two, four headed down the Anduin once more, and five headed to Mordor through the Brown Lands.

* * *

**Aragorn**

Two weeks later

* * *

Aragorn and Boromir each ferried Merry and Pippin respectively, one man silent with worry and the other with discontent. The rapids were now too loud to be able to hear each other over, but thus far they'd agreed with each other when it was too dark to continue ferrying.

Once on land, Merry noted, "It's been a while since I've seen the Enemy's creatures about. Do you think this is good news?"

Aragorn did not, in fact, know, and he said as much. "A good omen for us four, but we know not whether they have espied Frodo's party."

Merry fell into solemn silence, and Pippin looked crestfallen. They had taken the separation quite hard, and Aragorn felt quite sorry for them, but he knew it was safer for both parties if the hobbits were separated.

Aragorn approached Boromir, who was kindling a fire. "We cannot travel along the Anduin any longer. The rapids are growing."

Though Boromir did not look Aragorn in the eyes, he agreed. "Yes. We will have to go through Rohan soon."

Sitting down upon a rock, Aragorn demanded, "Boromir, are you still dwelling the separation of the Fellowship?"

Stabbing rather vehemently at the fire with a stick, Boromir answered sardonically, "What on Middle Earth gave it away?"

Aragorn laced his fingers together. "Let it go. We couldn't have used the Ring anyway."

Boromir became defensive. "Who said anything about the Ring? Even though we could have used it against the enemy, what good is it now? I merely wanted to protect the hobbits for as long as I could!"

"We _are_ protecting Merry and Pippin, is that not enough for you?"

Said hobbits looked up at the mention of their names. "Did you say something?" Pippin asked blearily.

Boromir's eyes softened. "No, we were just discussing the watch. Remember, you're after me." He said mock sternly, and smiled a bit as Pippin gave him a half-hearted salute before slumping down again.

Merry, however, alerted to the fact that the two had, in fact, been arguing about the hobbits, walked over to the two men. Planting his behind on the ground, he declared, "I know we're burdens. We eat too much, are half the size of you tall folk, and we can't fight." He met their gazes squarely. "But what we lack physically, we make up in merriness of spirit. You're going to battle, yes, but you don't have to act like it." He paused, slightly intimidated by their silence, but bravely plowed on, "Holly was always carefree." He left them with those words, ambling off to his watch again.

After a moment of silence, Boromir remarked, "He's a wise one, that Merry."

"Aye. That he is." Aragon agreed. Before another silence threatened to overwhelm them, Aragorn cut to the chase. "There is an oliphant the size of a several Balrogs in the room, and we must address it before we travel any further." When Boromir made no move to answer, Aragorn continued, "With Gandalf no longer in our party, the subject would first be to plan our course action."

Boromir dismissed, "We are similar, you and I. Thus far, we have agreed on most things, and everything concerning battle and travel. Why make things uncomfortable between us?"

Aragorn gravely looked into Boromir's grey eyes. "Because we are no longer traveling along a set course. I would like for us to get mounts, and Rohan is the best place for such an endeavor."

Boromir frowned. "Do we have the leisure? And will the King of Rohan even welcome us? Gandalf mentioned he had been practically chased out of Rohan when he had gone there for a steed."

"And that is precisely why I would go; Theoden is not a man of pettiness. He has no cause to treat Gandalf that way. I suspect there is more at work within Rohan." Aragorn insistently made his case. "And Rohan would be a powerful ally."

Thoughtfully, Boromir considered for a few moments before relenting. "Alright. But if there's the least indication of sorcery, we pull out. We no longer have that power on our side."

Yet the possibilities of Holly still being alive lingered in Aragorn's mind.

* * *

**Harry**

* * *

He was tired.

He was hungry.

He was in bird form.

Harry would have eaten rats, had there been any in sight. After all, Sirius had done the same for him. But he had instead (gladly) settled for fish, a more palatable choice, if only for his psyche than for his avian palate. He could pretend it was sushi. Uncut. And not deboned.

If it had been anyone else that spent half a month in avian form, he or she would have never flown again, but even as he ruffled his blood-stained once-white feathers, Harry knew with a certainty that he would fly again; after all, no matter how injured he was, flying was always calming.

Sauron's spies had landed some cuts on him before he remembered that he could still use Nessa's song in this form. He was pretty sure he'd garnered Sauron's attention; the only question was keeping it. His Maiar eyesight had already spotted the Fiery Eye, directed his way, bigger than he had ever expected it to be. A part of his mind empathized with the poor bloke, reduced to just an eye, no matter how feared, he couldn't _do anything_ but look; it reminded him of when he had lost his body.

Then he remembered the 'poor bloke' had massacred armies of elves and men and was a Dark Lord.

Right.

Now for phase three of his plan.

Slowly, painfully, Harry flew to a safe place before transforming back into his regular form.

He examined himself, and saw that in his Maia form, the injuries weren't as bad as he'd imagined. Besides, they'd heal soon anyway. Next, he examined his clothes: as he was now, in a tunic and trousers, his attire was completely unbefitting of the once-great Maia figure that had been the Sataressë who had garnered so many titles.

Harry recalled that in every dream he'd had, Sataressë had worn a dark green dress edged with a lighter green. Women would call it a forest green edged with a… spring green? Well, no matter what the colors were called, it was still a dress. Though the dresses did vary from plunging necklines to turtle necks depending on the season, more for appearance than for comfort, as Maia didn't mind most temperatures.

Shaking his head in resignation, Harry conjured the dress. The things he did for the people he loved.

But there was still his messy hair to contend with, and for nth time, Harry's thoughts turned to how Legolas was doing. He had regretted his deception until the last moment.

Sighing heavily, Harry transfigured his shoulder blades to become wings as well. And that turned his thoughts to Legolas as well. Though at first thought, wings seemed advantageous, should they be injured, Harry didn't know how Legolas would bear the pain. _Harry_ could simply get rid of the wings, but Legolas could not get rid of and bring back his wings on will. He would have to bear the injury. Harry cursed himself, though he didn't know whether it was from the pain of growing wings or at his thoughtless actions concerning Legolas.

As the last feather sprouted and Harry flexed his wings, he bit back a choice swear word; he saw no feasible way to put on the dress.

This was going to take some creativity.

* * *

**Legolas**

* * *

"We are nearing the end of the Brown Lands." Legolas observed. "Thus far we have been lucky enough to escape any notice."

"Lucky indeed." Gandalf grumbled, and Legolas frowned in confusion. He had known that Gandalf had possessed a rather short temper before, but these last two weeks, the Istar had been positively ill-tempered. Even Gimli was tiptoeing around the wizard.

Clearing his throat, Legolas continued as if he hadn't heard, "Soon we shall come upon the Dead Marshes."

At this, Gimli shuddered and muttered something in Dwarvish, following up with, "Are you sure there is no other path to Mordor?"

"You'd think a Longbeard Dwarf would have more courage." Gandalf rebuked the dwarf, harrumphing and thumping his white staff irritably against the ground.

Immediately, Gimli balked. "Being a Longbeard has nothing to do with it!" He lowered his voice to a hush as if they were already in the marsh. "Tales of those foolish enough to go through these Marshes have traveled far, and they all end the same: none ever return."

Judging from his expression, Sam seemed to share the same sentiment as Gimli.

"Well, no matter how ominous the name, we have Gandalf with us, don't we?" Frodo tried to smile reassuringly. "We'll find a way somehow."

Fingers reflexively twitching toward the pouch where he kept the beryl, Legolas could not quite suppress a resentful thought back to the events in Moria, where they had lost Niphredil. But Gandalf was the wisest among them, and they had no choice but to follow his judgment, if not trust him.

"All will be fine as long as you don't touch the lights." Gandalf murmured.

"Lights? What lights?" Gimli seemed alarmed.

"You shall see when we get there." The Istar said with dark amusement. Legolas got the impression that Gandalf was enjoying himself in scaring the wits out of the dwarf.

Legolas himself had only heard of the history of the Dead Marshes. The land where the Battle of Dagorlad – a battle between the Last Alliance and the forces of Mordor – had taken place, had turned into a swamp over the ages. Midwives' tales rarely reached the forests of Mirkwood, but stories of bodies seen floating in the water were told. Legolas did not fear the dead, nor their bodies.

It was safe to say that he no longer feared much of anything, besides a Balrog… but even toward those creatures he now harbored more anger than fear. He could no longer afford any such fears. And he certainly didn't fear the creature Gollum that had been tailing them on and off since Moria. He had discussed with Gandalf what he should do with the fugitive. Gandalf had said to let him be, and Legolas was inclined to agree, for he showed no signs of aggressive behavior. But he was still on the alert, as any self-respecting Wood Elf would be.

Grim he may have been after Moria, Legolas couldn't suppress a bit of amusement at the almost distressed look on Gimli's face when they finally arrived at the Dead Marshes.

Gandalf impatiently motioned them forward. "What are you waiting for? Hurry before the candles appear!"

Apprehensive and bewildered, Sam questioned, "Candles? You mean those lights you were talking about earlier?"

Gravely, Gandalf answered, "Yes. They will bewitch you, so beware. Do not attempt to touch the corpses in the water!"

Peering into the water, Frodo asked in confusion, "Corpses? What corpses?"

"They only appear when the lights appear." Was Gandalf's reply, which served to frighten the short folk. For the first time in a long time, Legolas' lips twitched into a smile as he waded through the swamp.

"Come along, now, nothing to fear." Legolas encouraged, and it was that precise moment when he saw lights flicker to life.

They were bewitching indeed, Legolas mused. He reached out to touch a light when he remembered Gandalf's earlier warning and snatched his hand back. Instead he looked into the water, to see that there were indeed corpses now appearing to float within the depths.

"Mister Frodo, no!" Sam's voice cried out.

Legolas looked back at the others, slightly alarmed and Frodo, who had been wandering off the path and into deeper waters, seemed to awaken from his stupor. As Frodo got a scalding scolding from Gandalf on the way, the hobbits were much more careful, and Gimli gripped his axe tightly as if to strike out at anybody outside their party that so much as _breathed_ too loudly.

Just when it seemed the travel through the marsh could not go at a slower pace, the marsh abruptly ended and a fell creature swooped down on them all.

* * *

A/N: I'M SO SO SO SORRY ABOUT HOW OVERDUE THIS IS!


	15. Of Distractions and Detours

**Quintessential Disclaimer:** Rowling's &amp; Tolkien's writings belong to their respective selves.

**A/N with respect to the timeline:** Yeah, it's effed up now. Attribute it to either Harry's liberal use of Nessa's song at the beginning of the journey, or the Fellowship's shorter stay (book canon) at Lothlórien. Or both.

* * *

**Back to the Beginning**

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

Of Distractions and Detours

* * *

After listening in on the Fellowship's meetings in Lothlórien, Harry had predicted that the Company would split up after traveling a certain distance down the Anduin. He itched to see how they were doing. He deserved that much, didn't he? He had flown around wearing a backless halter version of Sataressë's dress for a week, for Valar's sake!

He had distracted Sauron for almost three weeks. Three, lonely, hungry, weeks.

Harry remembered one of Yavanna's songs that made tree bear fruit, but suffice it to say Mordor was hardly an orchard.

And now so many of Sauron's spies were seeking him out that he'd had to hide under the safety of his Invisibility Cloak. He was pretty sure that Sauron had recognized him, what with the four Nazgûl that he'd had to banish, riding what looked like black, stunted, miniature dragons. As he'd reduced one of the winged creatures to ash, he'd stared straight into the Eye of Sauron, and it had stared straight back, the slit pupil becoming briefly wider, human-like, in what Harry assumed was recognition.

For all of a nanosecond.

Then the eye emitted a _tangible _blast of rage and menace as the pupil immediately slitted again, worse than ever. It was all Harry could do to hold the blazing gaze; he instinctively knew that it would be worse to blink than be blinded.

Okay, so now Harry knew the Eye wasn't just for decoration that could only look at things and instill terror into people that saw it. It could possibly read the emotions of people who gazed into it. And like its smaller golden counterpart – for Harry knew Sauron was as much a part of the Ring as the the Ring was a part of Sauron – he read the _desires_ of the victim, and tempted them into doing his will.

For all of a single terrifying moment during the gaze, Harry thought that Sauron would discover that Sataressë had no desire to live: there were endless possibilities with what Sauron could do with that information. But it seemed Sataressë's sense of duty won over her desires in that respect, as she had carefully coiled that particular desire, or lack thereof, away into the darkest corner of their somewhat shared mind, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

With Sauron on the lookout for a Sataressë and four of the Nazgûl down, and two swooping overhead in turns, Harry knew that the odds of the Fellowship being safe were quite high. Six out of nine were accounted for.

But something just gnawed away at him, telling him to check up how far they'd gone, and whether they'd truly gone their separate ways.

Under the safety of his cloak, Harry summoned the Elder Wand and whispered the familiar words, "Point me, Aragorn."

The wand lazily turned a bit in the direction the sun was sinking.

Okay. Harry was pretty sure that he currently stood in Mordor at that very moment, what with the pointed lack of trees, black landscape, and flaming eye nearby and all. He was by no means as skilled a wanderer as Aragorn, but he would have thought that the Fellowship should have made more progress than… well, the direction the Elder Wand was currently pointing to.

They seriously needed to quicken their pace.

Yet there was always the chance…

No… Harry was sure Aragorn wouldn't leave Frodo.

But gut instinct told him to try.

Slowly, Harry enunciated, "Point me, Frodo."

He was filled with dread when the wand nudged itself about twenty degrees to his left. At this far of a distance, the wand wouldn't differentiate _that_ much between two individuals of a single party. Even if Aragorn was going all-out tracker on them.

Swallowing, Harry uttered, "Point me, Gandalf." The wand remained pointed the same direction. Harry was slightly relieved at the indication that at least the wizard was still with the hobbit.

"Point me, Boromir." …And the wand nudged itself back to the right.

That meant that the dúnadan had gone to Gondor with Boromir, horseless and who knows what else.

That was it.

Sauron had been sufficiently distracted; Harry would go to support the part of the Fellowship (if he could he still call it that after the split) left vulnerable to magic.

Harry briefly wondered which party his undetectable-extension-charmed-bag had gone to. He also wanted to know which party Legolas had gone with, but he knew that would skew his bias toward whichever party Legolas had gone to, so he refrained from using the Point Me spell to satisfy his own curiosity.

Harry shook hismelf free of those distracting thoughts.

He had a bad feeling about this, and his auror instincts were very rarely wrong.

* * *

**Legolas**

A week earlier

* * *

From the air came a fell creature that took even him by surprise. Still, his reaction time was swift; he drew his twin blades out of their sheathes to ward off the claws of the beast and allowed his comrades the time to escape. Gimli, with his short-range weapon, would be of little use in this battle. Jumping back himself, he sheathed his blades once more and withdrew an arrow from the quiver on his back and notched it to his mallorn bow and shot at it. But it was knocked out of the air with black smoke and a metal clang.

For a moment, Legolas was stunned that anything could knock an arrow shot from a Lothlórien bow off its course. The bow had a draw weight of nearly eleven stone!

But he smelt a familiar tang in the air and he had felt a similar coldness before. He recognized them both from the brief period of time he'd traveled with the legendary Balrog-slayer Glorfindel.

Ringwraiths.

If he hadn't been a prince with an innate sense of decorum, Legolas would have cursed out loud in Sindarin. Notching his bow once more, he aimed for the beast's eye, a place the rider wouldn't be able to defend. But as soon as he loosed the arrow, he winced; he knew it'd miss its mark, and he was right. It pierced through snout of the beast instead, nowhere near a fatal area. It only served to aggravated the creature further.

So immersed as Legolas was with battle, it was almost too late when he noticed a small silhouette standing entranced with the enraged beast, or rather, its barely visible rider.

* * *

**Frodo**

* * *

Once again, like with the corpses and lights in the Dead Marshes, he was half parts drawn to and terrified of the Ringwraith, returned now upon a leathery and winged creature, resembling very much of his idea of what a dragon would look like, had it not been for his uncle Bilbo having described Smaug to be the size of a palace.

The Ringwraith was blind, but it seemed to sense the Ring's presence in the company; Frodo heard the voice of the Ringwraith whisper, _'Come with me. Our master awaits you at the gates. You belong with us.'_

Before he realized he had even taken the Ring out from under his collar, Frodo was holding it in a trembling hand to his finger, ready to put it on. The rational part of his mind that screamed at him that putting the Ring on would be revealing himself to the Ringwraiths, faded into nothingness.

All he could think of was the Ring…

The Ring would render him invisible. It would protect him.

"Frodo!"

Hazily, Frodo felt himself being hoisted into the air, but not by the Ringwraith, for the hooded figure was some distance away.

All of a sudden, a blinding white light filled the field, and when Frodo had come to his senses, the Ringwraith and whatever he had been riding were gone, with Gandalf standing in the clearing, staff raised, a thunderous expression on his face.

Frodo realized that Legolas had flown him away from the monster.

Sam, Valar bless him, rushed over to Frodo as Legolas flew down and placed the Ringbearer on the ground. "Mister Frodo! Are you all right? What was that? I thought all the Enemy's spies were distracted by something, why have they returned now?" Question after question tumbled from Sam's mouth.

Frodo rubbed his eyes and blinked rapidly. "It was a Ringwraith." He answered numbly. Looking up at Gandalf, Frodo asked, "That white light… What did you do?" He noticed for the first time that Gandalf looked somewhat different; he stood straighter, looked stronger… and his clothes were no longer grey, but a pure white, even after tromping through those marshes.

"When Holly re-knit my body, I became stronger."

At the mention of Holly, Frodo impulsively glanced at Legolas. The elf looked impassive, but his slightly stiffened wings gave away that Holly was still a sore subject for him.

Cutting through their turmoil of emotions, Gandalf continued, "I am no longer Gandalf the Grey, but Gandalf the White."

At those words, Gandalf suddenly seemed more imposing and awe-inspiring, much more powerful.

Then Gandalf chuckled. "No need to treat me any differently, however."

Frodo murmured, "I'd thought you looked a bit different than when you'd fell into Moria, but Gandalf the _White_ has a completely different ring to it." He smiled, glad for Gandalf.

"It's good that we have a _trustworthy_ wizard named as the White Wizard." The Dwarf rumbled. "Unlike Saruman." Gimli added darkly.

Gandalf grew grave. "Any White that Saruman had has long since been tainted." He looked around, eyes sweeping the area. "It will take some time to figure out that I passed by here, as my magical signature is no longer recognizable as the Grey Wizard. But wherever a Ringwraith lingers, other servants are bound to follow. Let us leave this area quickly."

The rest of the party agreed, Frodo especially, as he unconsciously fiddled with the ring.

* * *

**Legolas**

* * *

The party of five tread forward very carefully after the Ringwraith incident.

They were headed toward Morannon, the Black Gate, which, according to the Istar, was the shortest path to their final destination of Mount Doom.

That was, until Legolas heard a voice a few minutes before the turn for his watch. Sam must have drifted off in his watch. That was dangerous; he would have to have a word with the hobbit about that. But that was not Legolas tensed his body, ready to spring up to attack at any sign of aggression.

"They're taking the shortest path. We must stop them!" A raspy voice whispered in distress.

"Shortest, yes, but the most dangerous path. Yes, yes it is, Precious." was the soothing reply.

"But the Precious! The evil, smelly, orcsies will _takes_ the Precious from us!"

"Then we must takes it back, Precious. We're much smarter than those stupid, fish-headed orcsies." It was surprising how a voice could still sound so reasonable with such a ridiculous description.

Though Legolas had long grown used to the dual personality of Gollum during the creature's imprisonment in Mirkwood, some of the 'conversations' still baffled the elf. Wanting to know Gollum's true agenda (besides taking the Ring for himself), Legolas continued to pretend to rest.

"Should we lure the hobbitses away from the others, Precious?"

"No, no, no, the hobbit puts too much trust in the nasty wizard. Gollum! Gollum!" After the coughing spasm had subsided, the same personality continued, "We will find another way to distract the nasty elf and fat ones and the wizard while we strike…"

When Legolas could no longer hear Gollum's voice, he sat up. He had heard enough to justify killing the creature. Its intentions were definitely malicious, at least toward Frodo; he had no interest in Sam and couldn't stand up against himself, Gimli and Gandalf.

But he would speak with Gandalf, first. He had been aware of the fact that the Morannon was heavily fortified, but if it was the most dangerous way in, five was too large a party to evade an army of orcs commanded to guard a single pass.

* * *

**Harry**

* * *

At this point, Harry didn't know what course Aragorn and Boromir were taking to Minas Tirith, but he doubted that they would travel long without horses. Not if time was of the essence. And he'd learnt that Rohan's specialty lay with rearing horses. Chances were high they would make a stop there.

But for the life of him, neither Harry – nor Sataressë, it seemed – could recall what the name of Rohan's capital was.

'_You're supposed to be an all-knowing Maia. Why can't you remember the name of a capital?' _Harry asked, irritated.

'_Maia are neither infallible nor all-knowing.' _was the equally irritated reply.

In a last ditch attempt, Harry tried, "Point me, Rohan's capital."

The most powerful wand or not, the Elder Wand refused to budge.

Growling, Harry simply drew breath to sing Nessa's song to blindly follow Aragorn as he had done two times before, but an image flashed through his mind. It was of a forest and a flowing river. Harry frowned. Was it of the river Angren? Angren ran through the Gap of Rohan, which was the westernmost of Rohan one could get, but it would expedite his path to catching up with Aragorn.

The same image had flashed through his mind before, but he'd automatically dismissed it because it had been a forest, as he'd adopted Sataressë's idea that any damage to flora counted as 'collateral mortality' too.

Yet over the past few weeks, an idea had budded in Harry's head; Gandalf had said that apparating acted as a magical beacon for those with sufficient magic, but now he was under the influence of the very cloak that even misled the High Elf Galadriel in her very domain, would it still attract as much attention, if any at all?

And in his previous world's wizarding version of fairy tales by…what was the author's name again? Harry remembered retelling the man's stories to his children time after time and he couldn't fathom why the author's name just slipped his mind.

Harry kneaded his forehead, trying to remember. He'd been having trouble recalling details from the wizarding world as of late… Not Bilbo, that was Frodo's uncle… something more buggy, like a beetle… Oh yes, Beedle the Bard. The Bard had written that the third Peverell brother had requested from Death a cloak that would keep him hidden from Death himself –

'_This cloak is impenetrable; the Judge of the Dead himself cannot detect me when I wear it. No matter what I do.'_ Sataressë informed Harry, with just a touch of smugness that gave Harry pause.

What was Sataressë smug about? It wasn't like _she _had made the Invisibility Cloak or anything… or had she?

Deciding that it was an issue he could ponder on later, Harry took Sataressë's word for it and apparated under the cloak, closing his eyes to imagine the river Angren.

After the too-familiar sensation of apparating passed, Harry heard the river and opened his eyes. Even if the landscape had changed, it seemed he could apparate to a specific location as long as he had a particular landmark in mind. The rapids were there and appeared to have barely changed over the ages.

But as Harry looked around, it was painfully clear that the place was devoid of trees. His heart ached on Yavanna's behalf; the Vala who had taught Sataressë to hear the voices of plants would be heartbroken at the sight.

He shook his head; there was no time to brood over past follies that weren't even his. Providing Aragorn with magical protection took priority here, and that meant joining him as soon before he reached wherever Rohan's capital was.

At least he was closer than he was before. Using the Point Me spell again to find Aragorn's general direction, Harry began to travel.

On his way to Aragorn, he heard a battle going on. He paused; he didn't have time to waste, but one side sounded distinctly like orcs – more like Uruk-hai – with their typical quick but jagged and unrefined movements. The other side was riding horses…and well-bred ones, from the sounds of their hoofbeats. There was only one country nearby that was known for its horses.

"Hermione would say I'm on my 'saving people thing' again." Harry grumbled to himself as he headed in the direction of the battle sounds.

If they really were people from Rohan, maybe he'd learn the name of Rohan's capital, at least.

When he arrived at the battlefield, it was, for lack of a better word, messy.

Bodies everywhere, orc and man alike, horses rearing and falling, squashing a good number Uruk-hai in revenge. Deciding that every second he stood there agape like a fool was another few lives wasted, Harry pulled out the Elder Wand and began to shoot spells at orcs with deadly precision. At first, the men supposedly from Rohan didn't seem to notice that an invisible ally was among them, but after ten Uruk-hai were decapitated with no visible reason, and over twenty simply exploded into ash, they seemed to become alarmed, as if they wondered if they would be next.

Taking note of this and determining that if he threw the very army he was trying to help into further confusion he would be doing more harm than help, Harry swept his cloak off.

Several men of Rohan blinked at a woman on a battlefield, much less using_ magic_, but they decided to count their blessings and continued to fight.

For his part, Harry continued to take out Uruk-hai relentlessly, close ones with his sword, and farther ones with magic.

Rapidly, the tides of the battle changed. The Uruk-hai (and some men crazy enough to ally themselves with them) retreated to the west.

At the sight, the riders cheered in victory, and some even went as far as to make to charge after them, but a strong voice commanded, "Halt. We stood strong against the enemy and won this battle, defending Rohan's territory from Isengard and the Dunlendings." A sturdy blonde man riding upon an equally sturdy looking palomino rode forward. "We would have thought it impossible at the beginning of the battle, when we were taken by surprise. Even near the end, we were on the verge of retreating. Well fought, men! 'Tis truly a wonder, the combined power of fortitude and luck!"

A rider commented, "Those combined powers take physical form of a woman."

Many others murmured assent, of seeing long ebony hair and green raiment, along with a well-endowed figure, some descriptions bringing an angry flush to Harry's cheeks. He knew they were just stating their thoughts, and it wouldn't have bothered him so much a few months prior, but now it aggravated him to hear himself objectified by others – specifically men – in this case.

Those astride horses that stood near Harry looked down with surprise.

The leader questioned, "A woman, you say? Where is she?"

Horses and riders parted to reveal Harry, who briefly entertained the idea of becoming invisible again. But being who he was, he stepped forward. He imagined he must have made a gruesome image currently, a wild woman standing there spattered with dark Uruk-hai blood. With every man's eye on him, Harry realized that his sword was still unsheathed and gripped tightly in his hand and swiftly sheathed it.

The blond man looked down at Harry and asked him, "How brought you about this turn of tides? What is your identity?"

Harry coolly stared up at the leader. "I had thought it was custom to introduce yourself before asking a stranger a question."

The blond rider looked both astonished and amused, while his men stirred, angry at the thinly veiled insult to their leader.

Fortunately for Harry, it seemed that the leader was a man of good humour. Motioning for his men to settle down, he apologized, "Forgive me. My name is Théodred, the prince of Rohan."

In no mood to even attempt such a feminine thing as a curtsy at the prince, Harry replied shortly, "I'm Holly. I'm not completely aware of my own identity myself, so I can give no straightforward answer to the latter of your two questions, but I can answer the first. I have an obligation to fight orcs and Uruk-hai, and do so by both blade," Harry paused, obligatorily questioning the wisdom of what he was about to reveal, but too many had witnessed his wandwork for him to try and hide it now, "and magic." he finished.

At his pronouncement, the men broke out into murmurs, and Théodred's eyes widened.

"Lady Holly, are you a sorceress?"

Accepting the distasteful prefix with patience that had long since worn ragged, Harry flicked out the Elder Wand and conjured a pedestal that put him on eye-level with the majority that rode horses. He was getting tired of looking up; it made his neck sore. "Does this answer your question?" He knew he had long since sprinted over the border of insolence, but even if Théodred was the prince of Rohan, he was a Maia. Besides, he was mentally older.

To Harry's surprise, Théodred's face transformed from disbelief into desperate hope. "Lady Holly, will you accompany us to Edoras? We have great need of you there."

Edoras… The name tugged at Harry's mind until he realized that was the name of Rohan's capital. "I have business in Edoras myself, so it would bring no trouble to me to accompany you." _Except slow me down. _Harry realized that it would take quite the lung capacity to power the whole army with Nessa's song.

His hesitation must have shown on his face, as Théodred asked, "Are you in want of a steed?"

Harry shook his head. "I do not mind accompanying several people, but your whole army, however…" he trailed off significantly, hoping the message would get across.

A message did get across, but unfortunately not the one Harry had intended. "Oh!" Théodred exclaimed. "A thousand pardons, 'twould be improper for a maiden to be in the company of many men alone. I overlooked – "

Fighting back an urge to smack his forehead, Harry hung on desperately to the thin threads of his patience as he forced himself to look amiably agreeable. "You are too kind, prince Théodred. My business in the capital is most urgent, so perhaps a smaller company would be more practical?"

Théodred took Harry's suggestion and followed up with, "A guard of ten?"

That wasn't much more bodies than the Fellowship, so Harry readily agreed and vanished the pedestal, landing lightly on his feet. "Yes, that sounds fine. When will we be off?"

Obviously, this took Théodred by surprise. Harry found it understandable, they had just fought an enormous battle, he'd probably expected a bit more downtime. Too bad that Harry was in a hurry. "As soon as we find a mount… for…" he trailed off and stared, for where Harry once stood, was a glossy black mare.

Harry had gone ahead and transfigured himself into a horse. Deer form would not do for long distance and hard travel. And he imagined that if the men were unsettled by his transforming into a horse, they would react still less well to a bird. He had to irritably neigh at Théodred before the prince shook himself out of his stupor and selected some men to accompany them.

"Grimbold, you are to lead the army back to Edoras while the…" Théodred glanced at Harry the horse, "Lady Holly… and my personal guard head back ahead." The blond commander nodded to his prince. When Théodred had returned to Harry, Harry was back in his Maia form. "I know a magic that will allow us to travel a bit more quickly to the capital." With that as his only explanation, Harry began to sing the Song of Fleet Feet.

After the song was finished, Harry turned back to Théodred who was looking wondrously at him, and said with a touch of impatience, "Shall we?"

At Théodred's nod, without further ado, Harry transfigured himself back into a horse to ride to Edoras, hopefully to surprise Aragorn.

Harry could only hope Aragorn wouldn't be _too_ angry with his deception.

* * *

**Aragorn**

* * *

The party of four arrived at Rohan's capital with little trouble, but Edoras had changed much since Aragorn had last seen it, nearly forty years ago under the reign of Thengel, the previous ruler of Rohan. Thorongil, as Aragorn had been known back then, had served in the armies of Rohan for a time. Though Rohan had been at war back then, Edoras, as the capital city of Rohan, was spared most of the hardships of war.

The same could not be said of now.

Pippin remarked, "Dreadfully dreary place, this Edoras, isn't it?"

Merry cuffed Pippin over the head for that rather loudly spoken comment.

Boromir muttered under his breath to Aragorn, "'Twas an improper comment, I own, but a true one."

As citizens shrank away when their party made their way through, Aragorn struggled to hide his dismay at what the once-proud capital of the horse-lords had been reduced to. But he hardened his eyes and his heart.

It was neither pity nor dismay they needed; the citizens needed someone to take action to restore Edoras.

So changed though Edoras may have been, it was with determined strides that Aragorn led the company of four to the castle where the King of Rohan resided.

Aragorn turned to the hobbits and said, "It would do well to draw your hoods, to avert further suspicion."

Obediently, Merry and Pippin drew their hoods over their heads to conceal what the people of Rohan would view as a queer race.

At last, the four found themselves in front of gates guarded by many men, none of whom looked too glad at the state of their city.

As Aragorn approached, a guard blocked the way with a spear and cried out in the tongue of Rohirrim, "Stay, strangers here unknown!"

Aragorn replied in the same language, "We come here in peace." His eyes narrowed. "Though I know not why you do not use Westron to greet strangers as is the custom in the west."

"It is the will of Théoden King that none should enter his gates, save those who know our tongue and are our friends," replied a guard to Aragorn's pointed statement, "None are welcome here in days of war but our own folk, and those that come from the land of Gondor."

"We are safe, then, as this is Boromir of Gondor, and I know your tongue." Aragorn replied swiftly.

The guard motioned to the hobbits, who had drawn their hoods over their heads, as to appear like children. "I have trouble believing that people such as you would travel with children. Speak your true purpose in coming here."

Horses that were galloping nearer and nearer distracted Boromir and the hobbits, but not Aragorn. "We have come to seek audience with the King of Rohan."

"You will have trouble speaking with my father the King at the moment." A voice stated dryly in Westron from behind him.

As Aragorn turned around, the guard sprang to attention. "Prince Théodred! We were not expecting such an early return!"

The man who was Théoden's son said, "Nor I, but we made quick work back to Edoras with Lady Holly's help."

Aragorn did a double take, but it was Boromir who asked first, "Lady _Holly_, you said?"

"I did not know that Lady Holly was so well known." He dismounted and eyed Boromir. "But are not greetings due first, my friend?"

After momentary silence, the two men simultaneously burst out into laughter and clasped forearms, thumping each other on the back. "We meet again."

"Much has happened since you last came by."

As all this was happening, Aragorn examined the prince's company closely; there were eleven men counting Théodred… but twelve horses. The horse without a rider had a black coat, pawing at the ground with agitation. Aragorn would have thought that the mare's master had been killed, but there were no marks of a saddle.

What gave it away once and for all were the unmistakable green eyes that eyed Aragorn rather nervously as he slowly approached.

"Why hello, _Holly."_

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much guys! I know I've updated late, but I'm juggling two internships…


	16. Of Warring Wizards

**Default Disclaimer:** Both Harry Potter and Tolkienverse belong to people who have lived in Britain one time or another. I have never so much stepped foot on the British Isles.

* * *

**Back to the Beginning**

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

Of Warring Wizards

* * *

The glint in Aragorn's grey eyes did not bode well for Harry the Horse. Just barely, Harry resisted the impulse to shy away from the Ranger, as most nervous horses would have tended to do. He also refrained from rearing on his hind legs as an intimidation tactic.

It wouldn't work anyway. This was _Aragorn_.

As he had neared the gates in horse form with Théodred's party, Harry's eyes had flitted around, checking for Legolas; when the Elven prince had proven to be absent from this party, Harry got a sinking feeling. He had secretly been hoping to see Legolas and beg forgiveness for his deception and get it all over with. The thought that Legolas thought he was dead bothered him, but more than that, Galadriel's ominous suggestion that Legolas might fade with either grief or guilt nagged at his mind.

Nonetheless, catching Aragorn's eye again, Harry didn't think it would be very prudent to turn back into his Maia form right now.

Aragorn took another step closer to Harry but thankfully, Théodred came to the rescue, albeit unwittingly. The prince nodded at Aragorn. "I do not believe we have met before."

Turning, Aragorn nodded back and replied in a polite but frank tone, "We have not."

With a shrewd eye, Harry flicked his tail and waited to see how Aragorn, apparently still hesitant about owning his identity as the rightful King of Gondor, would introduce himself to the prince. To Harry's displeasure, Boromir saved Aragorn from the trouble. "This is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain."

With a look of surprise, Théodred exclaimed, "A Dúnedain! Truly? I thought that your kind had long disappeared. 'Tis an honour to meet you. Come, I bid you welcome, on my father's behalf."

When the group began to head in through the gates, Harry breathed a sigh of relief and finally transfigured himself back, but winced when Aragorn said without turning around, "We'll talk later, Holly."

His tone of voice made Harry swallow somewhat nervously, but he didn't have long to dwell on Aragorn's dark promises as he was besieged by two hooded hobbits. "Merry! Pippin!" Harry cried out in surprise. "What are you guys doing here?"

"We split up. They said that it would be too difficult to travel to Mordor, four hobbits in tow." Pippin said glumly.

Merry looked equally gloomy, but he reasoned with his friend, "They only did what they thought was best. They can hardly protect four hobbits all together."

Though Harry was indignant on the hobbit's behalf that they had been separated, he understood the reasoning behind the act. He comforted them the best he could as they walked through the gates.

"But you gave us such a fright!" Merry suddenly exclaimed. "Gandalf told us you'd died trying to revive him!"

"And he looked so serious while he said it too." Pippin attempted to imitate Gandalf's face when he had announced Harry's so-called 'death'.

Managing to disguise a full-out laugh into a hacking cough at the imitation, Harry made out, "That old man does tend toward the dramatics, but I don't blame him. I did lose my physical body for some time. Took me a few days to regain my body." Harry added to himself in a grouchy mutter, "And I was as naked as the day I was born when I did."

Nearly every male within hearing distance reddened. Aragorn, on the other hand, turned to give him a sideways look, his profile inscrutable.

Harry hastily changed the subject, "How were your travels? You weren't attacked by anything?"

Merry answered, "Surprisingly, no."

"No wraiths, no orcs, nothing." Pippin added.

Sataressë's goal of keeping the dúnedan safe had apparently been successful. Even though he'd done all the physical work. Harry stared two resentful holes into the back of said dúnedan's head. _'…Ungrateful prat…' _

Switching tracks of his thoughts, Harry was now worried about Frodo's party… but they had Gandalf, now the White Istari. They were not completely defenseless. Or so he hoped.

Before they could enter the throne room, the guards stopped them, even the prince. "You must leave your weapons here. No man may carry his weapon inside."

Realizing that the guard was addressing him as well, Théodred snarled, "I'm the _prince._ Would I attempt to take the life of my own father?"

Apologetically, the guard almost shuffled his feet on the ground. "King's orders, my prince. We cannot disobey them."

Looking agitated, Théodred cried out, "The King's orders, the King's orders! It was Wormtongue, was it not?"

Now the guard _did _shuffle his feet. "Orders are orders, my lord."

Théodred unbuckled his sword-belt and threw it down. Boromir and Aragorn followed suit, albeit a bit more sedately. The dúnadan, however, had the protectiveness over the blade Harry had made for him and informed the guards outside that if a single finger were to be laid upon it, he would pay dearly for it. And that went for the same for the sheath that the Elves had wrought for him.

Harry, on the other hand, made to brazenly enter without even bothering to relinquish his sword, A guard stopped him from entering, however. "Your sword, milady."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Your words were 'no _man_ may carry _his_ weapon inside,' I believe." He turned to the guard and smiled disarmingly. "Do I look like a man to you?"

The guard flushed. "It was a blanket statement, really, milady, I meant – "

"Then don't specify a specific gender." Harry said shortly, thrusting his sword into the hands of the flustered guard and proceeding to follow after the prince and his men.

Merry and Pippin too, unbuckled their own short swords and handed them over to the guard.

More than a few of the guards were surprised at Théodred's early return, hastily bowing and the herald practically sprinted to the throne room to announce the prince's return.

"What's the point?" Théodred muttered, "He won't recognize me anyway. He doesn't recognize any of us. He's become a puppet of Gríma Wormtongue." Sending a backwards look towards Harry, he said, "To be honest, this was why I wanted you to return with us, Lady Holly. In the small hope that you may bring my father back to his senses."

With this vague description of the possibly magical ailment, Harry ran through a list of spells that might restore the King's health. Théodred made his father's condition sound awfully like an Imperius curse, except for the fact that people were _noticing_ it. An Imperius curse was designed to have the person under control but in a much more subtle, if not undetectable manner. This sounded like anything but.

Besides, his previous world's brand of magic didn't exist in Arda.

They arrived at the throne room and Merry and Pippin came to a sudden hush as they saw an exceedingly old man sitting on the throne. A pale man clad in black sat next to him, whispering in his ear.

Harry took in the scene, and could hardly keep from raising his eyebrows as he looked at the king. Even Gandalf didn't look that old, discounting the fact he was Istari and therefore inclined to be quite fitter than the normal old man. The King looked, for a lack of a better word, decrepit, as his watery blue eyes stared forward blankly. Finished examining the King, Harry shifted his eyes to the pale man sitting at the King's right hand.

Théodred strode forward, face expression a mixture of anger, pity, and heart wrenching sadness. "Father, the Orcs and Dunlendings have been defeated at the Fords of Isen. They took us by surprise, but we were victorious." The pale man shifted and Harry's eyes narrowed. "I've returned." When the King showed no signs of answering, the prince repeated with a thread of desperation in his voice, "Your son is home."

The pale man leant into the King's ear and whispered, "Your son thinks you frail and old, unfit for the throne. He wishes to usurp you."

Of course, among his comrades, only Harry could hear this poisonous lie. But obviously the King believed the lie.

"…You…" Théodred looked up in hope; the King was clearly struggling to speak, "You are… no son of mine…"

A stunned silence followed that statement. The pale man looked triumphant, while Théodred and his guard looked aghast; the King had exhausted his energy to speak.

The pale man stood up and walked forward. "You heard his majesty, my… prince." he sneered the last word. "You are no longer welcome here; his majesty has disowned you."

Théodred clenched his fists. "Gríma Wormtongue! Is this how you managed to exile my cousin Éomer as well?" As he made to attack the slimy looking man with his bare hands, the King's guards drew their swords. At this, the prince's forces surrounded their prince.

"Cousin!" cried out a woman's voice, and Théodred turned around to see a woman with long blonde hair rush out from the halls.

"Éowyn!"

At the woman's appearance, the tension became immediately less tangible. Which was good, as the tension was distracting.

Harry could sense no magic powers from the man apparently named Gríma Wormtongue. This Wormtongue was obviously the influence, but not the source of the now clearly magical illness the King of Rohan suffered from. Taking a step closer to the throne, Harry fixed his attention on the King once more. The magic that emanated from the King felt familiar to Harry – it was of a distant Maiar origin. Istar, to be precise.

"_Curumo_." Harry murmured. It was a name of a Maiar he once knew, a Maia under Aulë. Curumo had been prone to jealousy, jealousy Sataressë herself had borne the brunt of when Curumo thought that Aulë favored Sataressë over him. Which was preposterous; Aulë was generous with his knowledge and taught anyone with the desire to learn. It was not too much of a stretch to think that Curumo had been sent to Arda as an Istari and was using his powers to possess the current King of Rohan. And that greasy looking git beside the King was taking advantage of the situation. He was probably a spy, given the discomfort he had shown at the pronouncement of Rohan's victory at the Fords of Isen.

Harry started to sing what few stanzas he knew of the Song of Healing, but he hadn't even finished the first stanza when the King of Rohan – or rather, the Istari possessing him – began to laugh. "You – you're the one who's been migrating like a flighty bird and killing my Uruk-Hai, aren't you? You think you can _sing_ me out of this body?" He gave another cackle.

Harry narrowed his eyes. He had suspected, but now he was sure: Curumo was Saruman.

Harry and Sataressë thought the same thing and one of them – Harry wasn't sure which – voiced it. "Aulë would be disappointed, Curumo."

The King possessed by Saruman flinched and his eyes widened in horror. "_Nurundil?_"

The corners of Harry's mouth tightened, but both he and Sataressë acknowledged the title. "Yes, and as the Judge of the Dead's sole Satar, I know his songs." He continued to approach. "Many of the songs would expel you from the body of the King."

The King – Saruman – leaned forward precariously, "Ah, yes, but if I leave, Théoden dies."

"Not if I can help it." Harry said grimly. "I can see his fëa, and it's a fair bit younger than the shell you have him trapped in." '_Plus, a human's hröa is a lot easier to knit than an Istar's hröa.' _Harry added to himself.

Gripping the arms of the throne he sat on, Saruman snarled, "Rohan is _mine._"

"It is not, nor will it ever be. I had thought envy your only vice, but it seems I was wrong, for I now see you are blinded with greed as well. You have fallen far, Curumo," was the calm reply, before Harry sang the Song of Death and Binding that he had used on the Balrog, carefully targeting only Saruman's fëa, now that he remembered how.

Perhaps Saruman had heard the song before and knew what it was, or he had maintained the wisdom he was once renown for, for he fled from the body of Théoden.

* * *

**Aragorn**

* * *

Everybody in the throne room watched with baited breath as Théoden became younger, healthier, and stronger. Théodred, along with the maiden who had called him cousin, sprinted over to Théoden. As they had their reunion, Aragorn looked at Holly, who watched the partial family reunion with… was that envy?

A Maia who craved a family. Another anomaly, though there _was_ Melian and Thingol. But Holly didn't seem the least bit romantically inclined, and Aragorn winced for Legolas.

Which brought him back to the present questions he needed to ask Holly. _How had she survived?_

His thoughts were interrupted when Théoden slowly stood up from the throne. "Dark have been my dreams of late. But now things do not seem so bleak. Do I remember correctly when I hear you say that you prevailed against the orcs and Dunlendings?" When Théodred nodded, Théoden sighed in both relief and regret, it seemed, for he said, "Would that I were strong and on the battlefield once more. I am proud of you, son."

Théodred reminded his father, "Your fingers would remember their strength better if they were to grasp your sword hilt." He motioned for the commander, who had held back from the encounter between Holly and whatever it was that possessed Théoden, to bring forth Théoden's sword.

Théoden flexed his fingers before drawing his sword. In a surprisingly quick movement, he had the sword tip pointed at Gríma Wormtongue. "Give me one legitimate reason I should not kill you here and now." Théoden's voice trembled with rage.

Wormtongue's voice, however, trembled with fear. "I – I have done nothing but serve you, give you counsel – "

"Yes, you gave me quite _fine_ counsel." Théoden's words were dangerously quiet, then cracked like a whip, "You sent my son to war when there was no need; you exiled my nephew; you reduced me to an old man withering away: you would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!"

"Your faithful servant was only trying to help – "

"And for that, I reward my faithful servant with imprisonment for the rest of his days. Death is too sweet for vile whisperers who poisoned my ears with ill-intent." Théoden's eyes glittered coldly as he sheathed his sword. "Guards, take him away!"

As the guards dragged Wormtongue away, Théoden turned to his guests, Holly in particular. "I believe I have yet to know the identity of my savior. From whence did you learn such powerful sorcery?"

Before either Théodred or Holly herself could say anything, Aragorn stepped in. "You speak to a Maia of old, my Lord. She assisted in creating this world."

All present, save the remnant of the Fellowship that already knew this, showed astonishment.

"But I would not pin you older than my sister-daughter Éowyn here!" Théoden motioned toward his mentioned golden-haired niece, dressed in white.

"'Tis in the nature of Maiar flesh not to age." Aragorn replied. "Long ago, she was once renown amongst elves and men." Aragorn predicted that Holly would be scowling at him, so he looked at her directly, daring her to deny his claim. To his surprise, a raised eyebrow was the only indication of her displeasure as Holly stared impassively back. "Now she prefers to be called Holly," Aragorn finished.

"Well, Lady Holly, 'twas very good fortune that brought you to us, in both battle and to Edoras." Théodred said. "I had hoped that you would heal my father, and you have done so! But pray, tell us, what was his ailment?"

Holly had called the not quite-in-his-right-mind-Théoden, 'Curumo' several times, so Aragorn suspected that Théoden had been possessed. Aragorn's suspicions were confirmed by Holly's reply, "Lord Théoden was possessed by Curumo – better known as Saruman." Holly's paused, probably having predicted everyone's shock, but then continued, addressing Théoden, "But if Saruman is half as wise as everyone believed him to be, he will not dare attempt to invade your mind again."

There was a relieved silence, before Théodred asked, "And you said you had business in Edoras?"

Aragorn saw Holly chance a glance at him. "Yes. I believed I would be able to find my companions here."

Aragorn narrowed his eyes. All Holly should have known was that the Fellowship was headed to Mordor. How could she have known that they would stop at Edoras?

Later, when all was finished and they had been furnished with rooms, Théoden and his son being instrumental in convincing the half of the Fellowship to rest, assuring them that they would provide aid, and even Boromir, who was intent on returning to Gondor, reluctantly gave in.

Which gave Aragorn a chance to confront Holly.

"Holly, a word?"

* * *

**Gandalf**

* * *

The wizard had been far grumpier than usual this past month and he knew it was troubling his companions… but he couldn't well help it.

The main reason for his ill temper?

_Holly._

She had tricked him into thinking she was dead! It was only when she'd – what did she call it… _apparated_, that was the term – that he'd realized that the immature Maia was still alive and kicking. Or rather, hyperactively jumping from location to location.

Yes, he realized that they'd discussed the possibility of her separating from the rest of the Fellowship and drawing the Enemy's eye, which she'd done admirably, at least, for a few weeks until the unfortunate chance encounter in the Dead Marshes, but to think that she'd tricked _him_ as well! If his staff wasn't his main power source, he'd have broken it in two when he'd first realized that she was still alive.

On the other hand, he was relieved. Not just because she had bought them some time, but because she hadn't died or left Arda like he'd initially thought.

He'd been worried for her, without even realizing it. That added to his grumpiness.

Another factor to his extra grumpiness: what would he tell the Fellowship? He couldn't imagine how Legolas would react after having agonized over Holly's supposed demise. He saw how often the Elven prince's hand twitched to the pouch he had tucked the elfstone into.

As Gandalf ruminated over Holly, the said Elven prince approached him with his own worries.

"Mithrandir, Gollum seems to be planning something."

Gandalf looked up in surprise. "Did you hear something?"

Legolas replied, "I heard him talking to himself."

Gandalf met the statement with bewilderment. Talking to himself?

But then Gandalf recalled memories from some half a century's years back. Yes. Sméagol and Gollum, dual personalities. Comprehension must have dawned on Gandalf's face, for Legolas continued, "I do not know the details, but he it seems he plans on drawing Frodo away while we are distracted by something else."

"But by what…" Gandalf muttered to himself.

Legolas looked impatient. "Had we not better circumvent the threat to avoid the situation entirely?"

Gandalf realized yet again how much the blond elf had changed after Holly's 'death'. He had just basically suggested that they kill Gollum before he got in the way. And having once been the pupil of the Vala, Nienna the Compassionate, he was not sure he liked who this Legolas was becoming. Yet another dilemma incurred by Holly's vanishing act. What a quandary Holly had put him into!

Carefully, Gandalf worded, "This disturbs me greatly, but I believe Gollum has yet more of a role to play."

Seemingly resigned to Gandalf's cryptic tendencies, Legolas altered the subject slightly. "And is going through the Black Gate truly the only way?"

Gandalf himself had worried about that part of the plan. "That is another reason why I think Gollum still has a role to play. I believe he has escaped from Mordor once."

"So you think to spare the creature, in the hopes he knows a safer path?" Legolas asked incredulously.

Gandalf had to admit that it sounded a bit far-fetched. "Let us wait and see. For now, let us keep closer watch on Frodo."

Legolas gave Gandalf a disapproving look. "You are not going to tell him of the grave danger he is in?"

"He's already in grave danger." Gandalf said shortly, effectively ending the conversation.

* * *

**Harry**

* * *

Preparing himself, Harry followed Aragorn into his room. The dúnadan turned and crossed his arms, surveying Harry with steely grey eyes.

"Gandalf told us you had disappeared from Middle-Earth like you had before. Yet you stand here, before me."

Harry had long learned how to not look sheepish, but it was difficult when someone older than you was looking at you with an air of disapproval. He had to make a decision on what to tell the Ranger; the truth (or at least most of it) or the conveniently abbreviated version he'd told the hobbits.

"Spare me the lie-by-omission story you told the hobbits."

O…kay. So the decision had been apparently been made for him. Harry hated when people did that. Sighing, he leaned against the wall and said, "Where do you want me to start?"

Aragorn's grey, almost silver eyes bore into Harry. "Preferably from the beginning."

"When I followed Gandalf and the Balrog down, then?"

When the only answer was silence, Harry supposed he could interpret that as a 'yes'.

"Well, we fought the Balrog for a while, but you know my swordsmanship prowess well enough to know that I wouldn't do well against something so flexible as a whip." Harry paused, briefly reliving a terrible moment before stating it, "Gandalf took a blow meant for me. He bled out." Aragorn shifted. "Needless to say, I wanted to end the battle as quickly as possible so I could heal Gandalf, so I drudged up the song of death. As a matter of fact, the song I performed for Saruman back in the throne room was exactly that. But by then, it was too late, so I had to take both souls to Halls of Mandos."

At this statement, Aragorn started. "Wait, you sailed to Valinor?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "I was a Maia under Mandos, I don't need to sail." It seemed this was the third time he had to say this. "Besides, I wouldn't know _where_ to sail. I was gone when they removed Valinor from Arda. While it may seem as if I'm capable of anything, I'm no mariner."

Aragorn snorted. "That begs the question, how did you get to the Undying Lands, then?"

"I apparated." Harry said dryly. "The 'efficient but unpleasant traveling method,' I think you described it?"

Frowning, Aragorn began, "But did Gandalf not say – "

"Sauron does not dare turn his eye to Valinor." Harry said in clipped tones. "Now will you let me tell what happened or are you going to continue interrupting me?" There was a moment of disgruntled silence that signified agreement to let Harry talk uninterrupted. "I deposited the Balrog's fëa and was informed that Gandalf would return as the White Istari, by Mandos himself. But that I would have to weave the hröa myself, so I returned to Arda to do so. His hröa was so badly damaged that _my_ flesh temporarily disappeared. Which resulted in Gandalf's misunderstanding." It was Harry's turn to look disgruntled as he muttered his thoughts, "as well as the matter of that emerald."

Aragorn's eyes narrowed at this, but he did not interrupt.

Harry decided it wise to skip describing how he'd followed Gandalf to Lothlórien. "Afterwards, I regained my body, and I used apparation countless times to draw Sauron's attention away from the Fellowship. Eventually, I revealed my appearance to Sauron. His spies are relentless, I tell you. Oh, and I felled four Nazgûl from their winged lizards. I was keeping track of you guys, though, so when I noticed that my wand didn't point in the same direction for you as it did for Frodo, I came to help you guys."

Harry waited for Aragorn's verdict. Sure enough, it came.

"There are several gaps in your explanation, Holly."

Damn. He'd noticed. Harry played the innocence/ignorance card. "What gaps?" He tilted his head, so as to give off the impression that was trying to remember something he might have missed.

"First, I find your mention of a certain elfstone entirely too coincidental to believe."

Harry didn't need to fake his confusion this time. "Elfstone…?" He held back a grimace as he realized he'd actually spoken his thoughts out loud before. Quickly, he said, "Oh yes, when my flesh disappeared, the emerald hairpin dropped with the rest of my clothes, and – "

"Yet you have your sword."

Aragorn's voice was accusing, and Harry knew he would have started sweating if he were still a human. "That's because I summoned it. And it only worked since Gandalf didn't take it with him after he was resurrected – "

"Ah, yet another gap in your story." Harry could have sworn Aragorn sounded grimly triumphant. "The time it took to regain your body. Truly, did you just do nothing while you were waiting for your body to return? While Gandalf was making his way to the Golden Woods?"

"No. I was going over Elven history while I had lost my body." Harry flatly answered; besides, it was true in part.

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. "Then how did you know that the Fellowship would split?"

"Boromir was headed towards Gondor from the beginning, remember?" Harry defended. "It was inevitable!"

"How did you know we would stop at Rohan?"

"Rohan is well known for its horse breeding, and I knew you didn't have horses, you were traveling on_ boats_, for Arda's sake!" Harry burst out, and realized too late what he had let slip.

"And _how, _exactly, did you know we had set off on boats?" Aragorn's eyes were chilling.

Harry refused to look away and fidget like a child caught in a wrongdoing. "I may have met with Galadriel."

"And just how long did you intend on deceiving us?" Aragorn's voice rarely rose above conversational level, but this was one of those rare occasions when he was close to shouting.

"Here I am, aren't I? I took no joy in deceiving you." Harry argued back. "I did it for the Fellowship. I did it so Frodo would have a better chance to destroy the Ring. I did it so you could take your rightful place as the King of Gondor! Why don't you trust me?"

"Trust is earned, Holly, and faking your death is not a way to earn it!" Aragorn's voice was filled with scorn.

Harry was at the end of his patience. "That was an accident! How was I supposed to know that my body would disappear after I finished resurrecting Gandalf?"

"But why didn't you come to us once your body had been restored? Do you have any idea how much pain Legolas was in over your farce of a death? Did you know he wept over the niphredil in Lothlórien?"

Enraged, Harry shouted, "Enough! I feel guilty enough about Legolas as it is without you and Galadriel on my case, so just stop! If you weren't Elros' descendant, I would have cursed you into oblivion!"

Harry stormed out of the room, effectively ending the conversation.

* * *

**Aragorn**

* * *

Holly's reaction to his admittedly somewhat harsh confrontation proved two things about her: she had everyone's best interests at heart (except perhaps Legolas', but that likely wasn't intentional), and that she was definitely not the Sataressë spoken of in legends.

For one, she'd admitted that she hadn't known the consequences of knitting hröa, even though Sataressë had been infamous for her skill in knitting hröa. Yes, there were similarities in personality qualities from what he'd heard from Ada, in terms of sheer determination and hard-working, but she seemed too young, too… human. Her mannerisms, references to time and age, and even way of speaking, spoke volumes about her past.

It wasn't to say that Holly _wasn't_ entirely Sataressë, as he'd glimpsed the ageless Maia a few times. It was as if Holly were a _younger_, immature version of Sataressë.

He'd watch and see.

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry my updates are so unpredictable lately!


	17. Of Search and Sabotage

**Sincere Disclaimer:** I would love to own these two large franchises, but I don't and that's the end of it.

* * *

**Back to the Beginning**

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

Of Search and Sabotage

* * *

Harry supposed that he had been rather temperamental, yelling at Aragorn like that, but the Ranger had touched upon a sensitive subject. He had grieved to see Legolas in such a state. In hindsight, it occurred to him that Aragorn had merely been testing him. He _had_ noticed the suspicious looks Aragorn had been giving him, and it meant either that he thought Holly was with the Enemy, or Holly's biggest and not-very-well-kept secret that she wasn't Sataressë.

At least, not completely.

He couldn't become Sataressë (nor did he particularly wish to) until he unearthed the secrets the Maia was keeping from him. It was like keeping secrets from one's own self, however.

_'You can't keep them from me forever, Sataressë. I'll dig them up sooner or later.'_

Per usual, though Harry somehow knew that his counterpart had heard him, there was no answer.

Sitting on his bed with his back against the wall, Harry examined his – no,_ the_ Elder Wand. He was starting to slip in his thoughts concerning Elder Wand. It was _not_ his wand. For the first time in a while, Harry thought back to his previous world. Where his family remained.

His heart had constricted painfully when he recalled the scene of the King embracing his son and niece.

Once, that had been him, hugging his children like that.

…Of course, minus the King part.

And with a whole lot more people, but even with only three people, Harry was reminded of his family and how much he missed them.

Ginny, Teddy, James, Albus, Lily…

…But at the same time, Harry had found a purpose in Arda, if only a temporary one.

Now that he'd become aware that he'd been drafted into a different world via hints the Valar of death and destiny had given him, Harry was ashamed to admit that he'd gotten bored with his life in the wizarding world. Holding the position of Head Auror for a couple of decades became quickly tedious after the first few years (if not months), especially with the paperwork. His children and godson had already gotten families and jobs of their own, and flown out of the nest, so to speak.

To be honest, he –

A knock at the door knocked Harry out of his own thoughts.

Rather reluctantly, Harry slid to his feet and went to the door. Upon opening it, he found the King's niece standing in the doorway, her blonde hair and white dress in a tamer condition than they had been earlier in the day.

It seemed that unlike before, she was making a conscious effort to look and act composed. Harry supposed it was in part due to an actual semblance of genuine composure – now that her uncle knew her again – and another in part to maintain her dignity before another female.

At least, Harry thought wryly, another female form.

It just showed how far Harry had come in terms of discomfort in being regarded as a female in his Maia form than he had before. He still didn't find it comfortable by any means, but he no longer flinched nor found it unnerving to walk past a mirror and see Sataressë's reflection where the sixty-eight – no, now it would be sixty-nine – year old Harry Potter's reflection should be.

For now, Harry decided it best to focus on the situation at hand. It was rude to keep a lady at a door so Harry stood aside and invited the King's niece in. "May I help you?" Harry politely inquired.

Éowyn – was it? – shook her head and merely replied, "I simply wanted to thank you for restoring my uncle to his normal self."

Very seldom, Harry found, did people do any such things such as expressing gratitude twice – the second time intentionally sought out – without an underlying motive.

So he waited.

"I do not believe I've introduced myself," the woman stated, "My name is Éowyn, and I gather you already know that I am his majesty's niece." After a pause, she continued, "and I also gather you know of my brother's exile."

A silence filled with a significant request ensued.

So that was the motive. Harry sighed. "And _I_ gather, you want to find your brother."

Almost too eagerly, Éowyn nodded. "To tell him of the good news of our uncle."

Harry almost snorted at (from _his_ point of view, at least) the pathetic excuse of a reason she'd come up with, but understood her need to find her brother; her family. Even if her desire was not so much hinted at than _shoved_ in his face. Managing to keep his tone understanding, Harry said, "As much as I'd like to help, I must discuss the matter with my comrades; they are eager to set out for Gondor."

Éowyn's face minimally stiffened, but her answer was gracious still. "Thank you for your consideration. When might I expect your answer?"

"Tomorrow at the latest." Harry replied.

"Then I shall await your reply."

Harry watched on as Éowyn turned and walked out of the room, back straight, shutting the door with a purposefully measured volume; not banged, but not too softly.

Harry stared thoughtfully at the closed door. He truly wanted to help the King's niece, but when Harry had told Éowyn that he needed to ask his companions' cooperation – that is to say, mainly Aragorn and Boromir – it had not simply been an excuse.

Now, Harry found himself at a crossroads between wisdom and pride. From what he'd seen of Boromir's protests against staying earlier, the Gondorean was in a rush to return to Gondor so Aragorn would be much easier to convince…

But he'd just had a big row with the man.

Even as he headed back to Aragorn's rooms, Harry was shaking his head at himself. He was sinking from his 'saving people thing' to 'helping people thing' now, was even sacrificing his dignity for it.

Harry's pride as an auror was rapidly crumbling down in the face of this particular situation. As Head Auror, he'd never had to ask _permission_ to go on a mission. Had he been working solo in his previous world, he wouldn't have hesitated to help search for a missing person, but the fact of the matter was that he was _not_ traveling solo and this was Arda, and he'd promised himself (or rather, Sataressë) that he'd support Aragorn.

But he was also the only one with the particular brand of magic that could locate people.

Yet, there was another angle to this search request that Harry doubted the King's niece had considered: he had never been even remotely fond of politics, but her implied request could potentially help Aragorn regain his rightful place as King of Gondor. Expediting the return of the King's nephew would help cement the alliance between Rohan and Gondor. Rohan would essentially be in Gondor's debt. Aragorn would surely see this.

…Assuming the man actually wanted the position of king. But Sataressë had added 'the restoration of the rightful Númenórean King' to Harry's to-do list and now Harry was determined to fulfill it.

So Harry swallowed his pride and knocked on Aragorn's door.

Aragorn opened the door, and raised an eyebrow upon seeing Harry again.

"Are you quite certain you have the right door?"

Harry gave Aragorn an arch, no nonsense look, to which Aragorn shrugged in response. "Well, it seemed _quite_ recently, I'd be the last one in Middle Earth you'd talk to, much less seek out again."

Harry replied in an even voice, "The King's niece came to me with a request, and I wanted to ask for your advice."

Aragorn stared down at Harry, both eyebrows raised now. "Advice." Aragorn stated, more than asked.

"Yes, advice, Dúnadan, for I am no longer familiar with this world's tactics concerning negotiations or politics." Snapped Harry. "They are too fractured. I have not interfered with court affairs this much since the sundering of the Elves."

Aragorn crossed his arms. "I'm listening."

"Éowyn came to me, implying very strongly – and not so subtly, I might add – that I would be of great help in the search for her exiled brother." Harry looked intently at Aragorn. "But now that I've found you, I do not intend to be separated from you or the others if I can help it."

Aragorn snorted quietly, clearly thinking back on the times Harry had followed him.

Ignoring the unvoiced jab, Harry continued, "But you know what benefits might accompany fulfilling such a request far better than I." He carefully searched Aragorn's face for even a flicker of emotion.

But Aragorn's face remained impassive. "How long do you think it'll take to find him?"

"That depends on how far away he is, but by myself, it shouldn't take me longer than a day." Harry added drily, "Though I'm not entirely sure the King's nephew would listen to a female as you do."

Aragorn scoffed. "You are no mere female. And you said that you'd revealed yourself to Sauron. There is no need to hide your identity any longer."

Harry sighed. "I don't know what you've heard about me, but if 'attention seeking' was one of them, you are sorely mistaken." Harry met Aragorn's gaze squarely. "Perhaps I share similarities with a certain somebody, hesitating to reclaim his rightful place as King of Gondor even on his way there."

Aragorn smiled ruefully. "Nay Holly, I have already long prepared myself to reclaim the throne; 'tis just my identity I am wary of revealing."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Though I note a slight lack of enthusiasm in your tone, I will pursue the subject no more. Personally, I want to find the King's nephew, as I've the means to help. I came here to hear your opinion, for even if I go, much of the potential political advantages will come to naught without your company."

Aragorn seemed to consider Harry's words carefully before saying, "If Lady Éowyn asked for aid in such an endeavor, we must assist – if Théoden does indeed desire our assistance."

Harry sighed in relief. "I am glad you approve." At Aragorn's questioning look, Harry admitted, "I had depended on convincing you first, for I believe Boromir will heed the words of a fellow man who has a vested interest in Gondor more than those of a Maia gone for several ages." He smiled rather bitterly. "Not all _edain_ are as open-minded as you, Aragorn."

For a moment, Aragorn seemed to be at a loss of words. Deciding to relieve him of his discomfort, Harry said lightly, "Now, shall we go find Boromir?"

* * *

**Frodo**

* * *

It had been almost a week since they'd been traveling along Dagorlad and they were slowly but steadily nearing the Black Gate.

But sometimes when Frodo was on watch, he thought he heard hoarse whispering and stiffened, hands ready to draw Sting, but whenever he did so, the whispering abruptly faded, making him think he'd imagined it, and no attack came. And Sting never glowed, which meant the whispering came neither from orcs nor goblins.

On the third night he heard the whispering, when Legolas was about to take over the watch, Frodo finally voiced, "Legolas… during some of my watches, I hear…" the hobbit swallowed; he knew Legolas wouldn't laugh at him, but he was still somewhat nervous of telling the elf his thoughts.

Legolas looked at him with worried eyes. "You hear things at night, Frodo? What things?"

Frodo hesitated to answer, but managed to finish, "Whispering."

He shouldn't have worried of being paranoid or scolded for not telling the elf earlier, as Legolas immediately stiffened and shot an astonishingly nasty (for an elf, that was) look towards Gandalf. In a soothing voice that quite contrasted with his withering face expression, Legolas said, "Worry not, Frodo. The voice merely belongs to the one who has been tailing us from the depths of Moria."

"Gollum!" Frodo wasn't sure if he should be more surprised or alarmed. Perhaps leaning a tad more toward alarmed. "He talks to himself?" Frodo had heard of Gollum's odd persona from Bilbo, but the phrase 'talking to oneself' really brought that tale of Gollum's insanity to life.

Legolas gave a mirthless snort. "Talks to himself, plots with himself… his personality has long been fractured since discovering the Ring."

Frodo felt a wee bit uneasy. No, he was deluding himself; he felt outright alarmed and horrified as he snatched up the Ring on its chain. "_I'm_ not going to turn out like that, am I?" He was repulsed by the very thought.

At Frodo's obvious alarm, Legolas showed a hint of amusement. "Gollum had borne the Ring for far longer than both you and Bilbo combined and thus had many more years to be influenced by it." The elf reminded Frodo.

Remembering Bilbo and the number of years he'd carried the Ring without becoming as decrepit as the wretched creature at their heels, Frodo sighed with relief. Still, the way Bilbo had reacted to the Ring when he'd taken it out… Frodo shook the thought out of his head.

Anyways, they were off to destroy the thing.

Just past the Black Gate that loomed closer and closer…

Past the orcs…

Up Mount Doom…

Drop it into the lava…

Then it would be over.

Absently toying with the Ring that hung upon the chain round his neck, Frodo could not help but wonder how such a short list could sound so daunting. But he had taken on the job, and it was his duty to finish it.

* * *

**Legolas**

* * *

Legolas tensed. At this point, even Frodo had realized something was wrong; the Elven Prince sent Gandalf a glare, though whether the wizard hadn't seen it or had magnificently ignored it Legolas had no idea.

In the end, Legolas settled on telling Frodo the truth, even if only a partial one. Carrying the burdensome title as Ringbearer, Frodo deserved to know.

For days, Legolas had lain alert even during others' watches, trying to discern even an iota of Gollum's plan. They were in vain, however, as Gollum's 'conversations' were either useless or next to unintelligible to him. It had been a miracle that he had deciphered the first conversation.

So leaving out Gollum's active plotting, Legolas informed Frodo of the source of the whisperings that obviously unsettled the hobbit. Frodo's unease had noticeably increased when he'd brought up Gollum's name. Inwardly, the elf sighed. What was Gandalf thinking, leaving Frodo in the dark like this? And it seemed the hobbit's time wearing the Ring was slowly taking its toll, as Legolas saw a glimmer of precious metal twinkling between Frodo's fingers before he turned his eyes to the watch.

The next few days passed uneventfully; Legolas no longer heard Gollum's conversations, nor were there any signs of them being followed any longer.

Though such an abrupt departure was suspicious in and of itself, Legolas turned his mind elsewhere; Legolas had long been wary of the Morannon and its guards, and grew warier still the nearer they approached. For the hundredth time, he looked along the top of the wall and the gates, eyes running over the guards, when he gave pause.

The Orc guards stationed atop the ramparts were unusually alert. Like they were expecting something… Focusing on something…

Something in his mind clicked.

"Mithrandir, Morannon is not safe." Legolas urgently informed the wizard.

Gandalf heaved a sigh. "I am well aware of the fact, Legolas. But I cannot think of another way in."

Legolas grimly shook his head. "You misunderstand me, Mithrandir. I believe the creature Gollum plans to – "

A groaning of gears sounded and all of a sudden, a shower of debris rained down from the sky.

Gandalf sprang into action. "They have discovered us! Run to the wall, the catapult cannot reach us there!"

Legolas' eyes narrowed. A catapult was a weapon primarily used to knock walls down, running to the wall's shadow to dodge the rocks would be just what they expected. "Mithrandir, I do not think – "

"Hurry! I will draw their attention away! Holly did not give you those lumps on your back to molt!"

Though his lips were peeled back to bare his teeth in a snarl, Legolas knew that arguing with Gandalf would aggravate things. He threw back his cloak to unfurl his wings, grabbed Frodo and Sam round their waists, and flew to the wall.

Even though he strongly suspected they were flying into a trap.

He felt stinging sensations on his wings and body, but sheltered the hobbits the best he could and pelted forward. When they were not quite at the gate but on the edge of it, hidden by a boulder of the mountain, Legolas set the hobbits down. He felt slow trickling sensations from various places on his body.

"Legolas, you're bleeding!" Frodo cried out.

So _that_ was what the trickling sensations were, Legolas dimly thought. A bright light shone from even behind the large boulder; still in battle mode, Legolas looked from behind the boulder to see what Gandalf was doing and where Gimli was. But even his elf eyes could only see a blinding light and he quickly ducked behind their refuge again. "I have to go back for Gimli." Legolas said distractedly.

"No!" This was said simultaneously by both Frodo and Sam.

"Gandalf's out there as well. We'll just have to hope they'll be alright." Though his voice was even and the words spoken were calming, Frodo's true feelings were betrayed by a white-knuckled fist clenching what Legolas vaguely supposed was the Ring.

"'Sides, you're hurt!" Sam, usually quiet, was adamant about this. "I may not know a lot about you Elves, but judging from your eyes, what you're running on right now is battle fever, and when you cool down, I reckon all you'll feel is pain."

Sam might be correct, Legolas thought, but if Gimli died here, he knew he would regret it for the rest of his immortal life. The light slightly dimmed and Legolas chanced another glimpse.

And this time, his elf eyes did not fail him; he saw a tall figure holding a staff up high, blowing away every rock and metal flying toward him; some distance away, he saw a stocky figure of what could only be a dwarf holding his own and smashing every big rock that fell from the sky near him into pieces. Gimli's dented helmet had seen better days by far, but the dwarven warrior was doing quite well in his own right and Legolas felt a surge of pride for Gimli, whom he could now veritably call a friend.

Legolas trusted his friend was strong enough to survive. Even so, Legolas prayed to Elbereth that Gimli would make it through the storm of debris safely.

Sensing another presence on the borders of his heightened senses from behind them, Legolas sharply whipped around. Frodo and Sam both shrank back at the suddenness of Legolas' movement and seeing their fear, Legolas managed to smile and assured them, "Worry not. Gandalf and Gimli are both holding their own." Noting the extreme relief in the hobbits' eyes, Legolas made a split second decision that made him hate himself. He continued, "But we must continue ahead whilst they are distracting the Enemy."

Frodo's blue eyes widened. "But – "

Legolas quelled Frodo's dismay with a stern look. "The Enemy knows we are near the gate, and if we are caught now, Gandalf's and Gimli's efforts will be for naught."

This seemed to convince the Ringbearer, as Frodo's resolve seemed to harden when he said firmly, "Then we will climb the Outer Fence if we must, to keep their actions from being in vain."

As he folded his wings, Legolas held back a wince. Sam had been right when he had said that he would feel pain after the battle fever had subsided; even if flying up *Ephel Dúath was a choice, he had a feeling that his wings would be useless for some time. They would have to hike up the path, and, as Niphedril had been fond of saying, 'wing it'.

Looking over to where he had felt the skulking presence, Legolas narrowed his eyes in thought. Perhaps… as treacherous the creature was, what did they have to lose by giving Gandalf's theory a try? He turned to Sam.

"Do we still have the coils of the rope we received at the Lórien?"

_[*Ephel Dúath: Sindarin for the Outer Fence, the western mountain range of Black Gate] _

* * *

**Aragorn**

* * *

Though it took the combined efforts of him and Holly and a good deal of time to convince Boromir that _not _accompanying the search party for Théoden's nephew would do more harm than good, the Gondorean finally relented.

"I am better known to them as a representative of Gondor, so I should go as well." Boromir said resignedly. Aragorn heard a hint of bitterness in his voice. It seemed that the son of the steward still hadn't completely reconciled himself with Aragorn's position as Elendil's heir and Gondor's King.

The search party was being put together, consisting of Prince Théodred, three other Rohan men, Boromir, Aragorn, and Holly – Éowyn had fought tooth and nail to be included. The King and his son had tried to convince her that Éomer wouldn't be pleased to see his sister in such danger. Éowyn had looked to Holly for support; Holly had looked conflicted and asked the King's niece if she could wield a blade. Éowyn had quickly nodded, and after gauging her sincerity, Holly had looked at Aragorn briefly before saying, "If she can wield a blade, then she is as capable of protecting herself as any other man. And should the need arise, I myself will protect the whole search party."

Holly had sounded so confident that it was no wonder that the men caved and allowed Éowyn to join. The next step was convincing Holly to ride a horse…

When Aragorn brought up the subject, Holly had flat out refused. Aragorn, as well as the men of Rohan, protested. "You came all the way here – "

"The least we could do is provide a horse – "

"I came _as _a horse, not _on _one." Holly stubbornly held out.

"'Twould be discourteous to reject their offer." Boromir quietly pointed out.

That gave Holly pause, but Aragorn saw that she was still going to refuse, so he said in an offhand manner, "Gandalf rides and is capable of magic, so the _Lady _Holly should also be able to do the same."

Théodred clapped his hands. "Then 'tis decided! We shall give Lady Holly her pick of horses!"

Holly glared at Aragorn, _knowing_ that he was goading her. He gave her an innocent look in return. Making sure the others couldn't hear, she hissed at him, "I don't _know _how to ride!"

Aragorn shrugged. "You didn't know how to fight with a sword before, but you learned."

"We had not made an enemy of time back then." Holly spat back. "If we are slow to find the king's nephew, know that you have yourself to blame."

When they set out that noon, Aragorn discovered Holly had not been in jest when she had said that she didn't know how to ride a horse.

She knew her animals, yes, as she had immediately gravitated to the fairest – but apparently unlucky – mount. Yet even then, she had seemed unsure. And when it came to saddling her mount, she had shifty eyes, as if she were imitating what others were doing; she occasionally fumbled with a strap and was always a beat behind him, he noticed. He wondered what would happen if he sped up his saddling, but refrained.

But had not Holly admitted rather venomously to him that she could not ride, everything could be dismissed as rustiness due to a long time away from the saddle. What ultimately gave her lack of horse-riding experience away was the awkward way in which she mounted the stallion, especially in comparison to the smooth confidence in which the Rohirrim mounted their own.

Aragorn winced when he realized how Holly would feel after her first time riding a horse.

* * *

**Harry**

* * *

_'Aragorn is a prat. Aragorn is a prat. He is a Ilúvatar-forsaken prat.' _was constantly running through Harry's mind as he galloped in the direction that Éomer was in.

He'd felt Aragorn observing him keenly all through the process, starting with the choosing of horses – Mearas, the Rohirrim called them. His eyes had scanned over the horses, and landed on a black horse that had a white star on its head. As he neared, the horse eyed him as if x-raying him, weighing him, judging his worth. It reminded him a bit of… well, _him._ Or at least, the Harry Potter of the wizarding world, marked forehead, battle-weary eyes. He reached out tentatively to stroke its muzzle and the horse's eyes closed in acceptance.

"This one." Harry whispered.

"Are you quite sure, milady?" asked the Stablemaster, his tone setting off alarm bells in Harry's head.

Hand pausing to a rest on the horse's forehead mark, Harry asked, "Why do you ask?"

The Stablemaster shifted. "Well, that stallion there had 'most six masters previous, but as they were all slain in battle, rumor's have it that he's cursed."

At the word 'cursed,' the horse opened his eyes, as if daring Harry to back away at the new information. "What's his name?" Harry asked the Stablemaster absently, staring into the horse's eyes.

"Originally, 'twas Nightstar, but what with the deaths of all his masters, the stable hands have taken to calling him Déaþscúa – it means Death's Shadow in Westron. That or Deathbearer."

_'Death left its mark on you too, I see.' _Harry thought silently. "I'll take him." At this, the supposedly cursed horse closed his eyes and nuzzled his hand.

"It seems that horse has chosen you as well." Théodred declared. "That stallion is experienced in battle, but we had not expected to find him a new master in you, Lady Holly. May you break the curse on him like you did my father."

The Stablemaster opened the gate and the stallion immediately followed after Harry. "I've a feeling that we'll get along famously." Harry said dryly, giving the horse a sidelong look. More quietly, he said to the horse, "You do realize that you _chose_ to associate yourself with death by choosing me?" The stallion snorted and tossed his head. "Well, I won't have a horse named Deathbearer carrying me, so I'll call you Erêl, for the single star on your forehead."

At this, the horse shook his head vigorously, as if disagreeing. "What, you _like_ being called… what's it… Dathshwa?" Harry said a bit more loudly than intended.

"Déaþscúa, Holly. Daey-th-shu-ah." Aragorn enunciated slowly, as if Harry were a dunce. Which he had been acting one, Harry admitted, in this case, butchering the Rohirric language while pointlessly talking to a horse. But it seemed like he would have to learn how to pronounce that particular name, seeing how the stallion seemed a mite more content now.

After choosing Déaþscúa – it figured he would choose a horse with a name difficult to pronounce – Harry had been able to fumble through saddling by carefully watching others.

But as everyone fluidly mounted their horses, Harry knew the moment of truth had come. He mounted his own horse and inwardly winced because it was done with so little grace compared with the others. Granted, it _was_ his first time mounting a horse, period, so he felt he could be forgiven. The only other times he'd had any number of hooves beneath him was far back in his school years and riding Firenze or Buckbeak. And that had been bareback. Maybe he should have done bareback.

But it was literally a lifetime ago.

As if Déaþscúa could _feel _Harry being wistful, he gave a whinny to interrupt his rider from his thoughts, as if telling him to focus. Harry was used to intelligent owls, but intelligent horses were a first.

"Wait!"

"Where are you going?"

Hearing the familiar voices, Harry grimaced, as did the other remnants of the Fellowship. They had not asked Merry and Pippin to come along, because, Harry was loathe to admit, they would slow them down. Let Aragorn take care of it, Harry decided.

"We are going out briefly to search for the King's nephew. We'll be back."

Predictably, Pippin crossed his arms. "You're not going anywhere without us."

"You can't expect us to sit here and smoke our pipes while you're out there in danger. We might be hobbits, but we're not cowardly folk." Aragorn hesitated, giving Merry the chance to hammer the final nail into the coffin. "Besides, what with Pip here barely knowing his toe from his elbow and most of the palace not knowing our race, what if we're separated?"

Éowyn, empathizing with the hobbits, said, "Our Mearas may not be able to hold both a man and a halfling and still be swift, but they are able to hold a woman and a halfling. And luckily," she caught Harry's eye, "we have two women."

Oh no. Two inexperienced riders on Déaþscúa, a horse whose name Harry could barely pronounce, much less ride? But he grit his teeth and helped Pippin up onto the front of his saddle.

Wanting to find Théodred's cousin and have this over and done with more than ever, Harry summoned his wand, "Point me, Éomer." Worst case scenario, he could just get off Déaþscúa and run while carrying Pippin; his pride was not priority here. His – no, the _Elder_ Wand swung left, roughly northwest.

"To the northwest!" Harry pitched his voice so it carried to what little company they had.

Though Harry would have preferred to ride at the back, he knew that would be inefficient, as he was the only one who could locate Éomer. Not to mention Théodred and Éowyn insisted that he lead the search party. Great. The royalty among the horse lords would find out the he'd never ridden a horse. He would just have to trust that Déaþscúa would know where he wanted to go. He admitted sheepishly to Pippin that he didn't really know how to maneuver a horse, so the young hobbit might be in for a bit a rough ride.

Pippin gulped, but to his credit, smiled shakily and said, "It's okay, Holly. Besides, I know you wouldn't let me get hurt."

Harry was rather touched by Pippin's stalwart trust in him. Then he would do his best to be worthy of that trust, Harry thought as he nodded back.

He nudged Déaþscúa with his left knee as he had seen others do to turn their horses left and gently tugged on the reins, well aware of what he was doing could hurt the horse, as he himself had been one on the way to Edoras. Luckily, as Théodred had said, Harry had chosen a seasoned horse that began to gallop northwest when Harry showed the inclination to begin moving.

Every so often, Harry would check what direction Éomer was located in comparison to the search party, and adjust accordingly. When the search party was on the verge of stopping for the evening, however, Harry's keen ears heard battle sounds. He held up a hand, signaling the search party to halt, hoping to Ilúvatar to disprove his suspicions with a Point-Me spell performed while not moving.

The Elder wand was twitching a few degrees whenever Harry did the Point-Me spell. "It's moving slightly." Pippin observed. "What does that mean?"

Smiling grimly down at the hobbit, Harry replied, "Nothing good." Closing his eyes in resignation, Harry turned, and Déaþscúa instinctively wheeled around; it still surprised Harry how perceptive and obliging his new horse was. As if reading his master's thoughts, Déaþscúa snorted.

Perceptive and obliging, with a slight attitude problem, Harry corrected himself. Returning to the matter at hand, Harry addressed Théodred, "Your cousin was exiled with about a hundred troops?"

"His Éored, a cavalry of a hundred and twenty men, chose to follow him. Why do you ask, Lady Holly?"

"Because we're about to ride into the middle of a battle."

* * *

**A/N:** I am so sorry folks I have had _no_ time to write/update… but one internship ends tomorrow! Another reason for my slow update speed is that though I have the major plot points down, I'm hazy on the details (eg. Black Gate) so I'm just improvising.


	18. Of Rescuing and Restraining

**Redundant Disclaimer: **I own a set of the Harry Potter books in hard cover? And dog-eared set of Lord of the Rings trilogy. I don't think I have The Hobbit.

* * *

**Back to the Beginning**

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

Of Rescuing and Restraining

* * *

Harry glanced down at Déaþscúa, essentially called Death's Shadow, and muttered, "Let's see if the rumors about you are true, eh, boy?"

Thinking that Harry was talking to him, Pippin was naturally bewildered. "Eh?"

Guiltily looking at the young hobbit, Harry said, "Actually, not only am I completely new to horse riding, but this horse, Déaþscúa…" Harry trailed off briefly to come up with delicate wording. "…Well, he's rumored to have a habit of riding out to battle with a rider, and coming back without one."

Pippin paled.

"And even though I think that's a ridiculous rumor, I really don't want to test that out right now, when we're going into battle with two inexperienced riders." Harry admitted, and Pippin looked to Merry uncertainly, who seemed to be going through a similar discussion with the nearby Aragorn.

Harry could practically see the cogs turning in the youngest hobbit's mind, which, though admittedly not the quickest, had still apparently caught onto the hint of having him dismounting from the horse before the group charged into battle, and being inevitably left behind. "It's not being cowardly." Harry said quietly, and Pippin looked at him skeptically, prompting him to explain, "I know fighting on horseback is usually an advantage, but for me, it's…" Harry tried to find the right word, "well, it's more _dangerous, _actually. Because I don't have any experience."

Before Pippin could answer, Merry had dismounted from Éowyn's horse, looking downcast. The king's niece looked sympathetic. Harry looked into Pippin's eyes. "Are you going to leave your friend alone?"

Pippin awkwardly jumped off of Déaþscúa, and Harry felt genuinely sorry for his young friends; they wanted to help, but they just weren't equipped.

Suddenly struck with inspiration, Harry summoned his Invisibility Cloak. "Catch!" Pippin, caught off guard, nearly dropped the cloak that Harry tossed to him.

Holding it in awe, Pippin asked, "What is this?"

Harry grinned and said, "A cloak."

Confused, Pippin replied, "But we already have cloaks from Lothlórien. This one's too big and looks rather…" he paused as he searched for the right word. "…flashy," he finally settled with.

Harry's grin widened. "Just put it on and you'll see."

Hesitantly, Pippin swung the cloak round his shoulders, all but his head disappearing.

Those watching the exchange between them gasped to see the hobbit's head floating in midair.

"What?" Pippin didn't have a mirror so he couldn't see himself. "Besides, this cloak is too big – " he glanced down at himself and gave out a holler. "What is this? I can't see my body! This is almost like – "

The expression of sneaky amusement on Harry's face turned stern and even dangerous. "Peregrin Took, if you were about to compare it to the Ring…"

Pippin's mouth audibly snapped shut. "Now, as for it being too big, that won't be a problem; you're going to share it with Merry." He caught Merry's eye, Merry nodded reassuringly.

"Don't worry Holly, I'll keep Pip out of trouble," Merry said, ignoring Pippin's indignant squawk.

"After the battle, we'll come back here. If by some slim chance, you run into some orcs, get as far away as possible; their sense of smell might get you caught, invisible or no." Harry said seriously.

Both hobbits gulped audibly before nodding. Giving a sharp nod in return, Harry wheeled Déaþscúa around – or rather, Déaþscúa turned of his own volition – and addressed his restless companions. "If we are to find Éomer, we will have to ride into battle, where he and his Éored are battling Orcs and Uruk Hai a few leagues from here."

"How do you know?" demanded a Rohirric warrior whom Théodred had handpicked to be a part of the guard.

Harry gestured toward Théodred and said, "I was several leagues away when I heard you battling orcs as well and I joined you, remember?" He smiled grimly. "Lucky me, knowing magic and all, or you might have all been slaughtered." Harry inclined his head in Théodred's direction, "No offense meant, highness."

"None taken, Lady Holly, for you speak truly." He turned to Éowyn. "Cousin, Éomer will not be happy to see you on the battlefield. Stay here with the halflings; 'twill be safer for you."

Éowyn grit her teeth. "Are you telling me this as my cousin or ordering it as the prince of Rohan?"

"Both." Théodred answered gravely.

Even as he saw Éowyn clenching her fists with anger, Harry was inclined to agree with Théodred in this case. He was no misogynist, (he would _never_ have survived his wife if he was, and considering his current form, it would make him a hypocrite) but with magic, everyone stood on equal ground, because wandwork didn't discriminate on gender. Swordsmanship, on the other hand, heavily favored the male sex, both in build _and _situation. Éowyn was no witch and he had never seen her fighting with his own eyes to judge her skill with a sword.

When Éowyn opened her mouth to argue, Harry hastily cut in, "It is not because we think you would become a hindrance," he lied through his teeth. "If anything, _my_ lack of experience with horses would be the hindrance." he appeased with the truth. If there was anything he'd learnt in his time as Head Auror, it was diplomacy. Lowering his voice, he continued, "But it is Merry and Pippin I am worried for. I ask you this one favor, Éowyn. To protect them."

For a moment, Harry thought she would refuse. But after the brief moment that felt like a lifetime to him, the king's niece reluctantly nodded and Harry privately let out a sigh of relief.

They decided to take Éowyn's horse with them; with a horse, the party of three would be far too conspicuous, and the cloak that Harry had initially given Pippin ended up with Éowyn. The camouflaging cloaks Pippin and Merry had been given at Lórien would serve their purpose, though not nearly as well as Harry's Invisibility Cloak. They were given water skins and left at the edge of a forest for protection in case they needed it. Harry willfully ignored the whispers of the forest. Distractions were the last thing he needed at that point.

So the find and most-probably-turned-rescue-party was three riders shorter than when it first set out, but now that they were assured that every man (or woman, as Harry thought absently) could protect himself, all hesitation of riding out to battle vanished. Déaþscúa continued his show of uncanny streak of intelligence by going the direction Harry wanted without needing even the slightest indication on Harry's part. Soon, the sounds of battle could be heard, and the remnants from Harry's Head Auror days automatically rose a hand, silently commanding the riders behind him to stop.

"Why are we stopping?" asked a guard.

"We've arrived." Harry replied absently, as he tried to work out how the battle was going, so they wouldn't be rushing in blind. They might be able to work out a strategy too, if his ears could glean enough information.

"Arrived where?" It seemed one of the Rohirric men were incredulous, which Harry did not appreciate.

"On the edge of the battlefield." Irritation seeped into Harry's voice. "And before you say that you can't see any armies, I can _hear_ it, and your horses can probably sense it too. So if you can't trust me, trust _them_."

Surely enough, the majestic horses were pawing at the ground or throwing their heads, sensing a battle nearby. Harry noted that Déaþscúa did neither, but attributed it to the fact that the stallion was desensitized to battle (and dying owners, he thought morbidly). Harry went back to listening to the far off battle. About eighty evolved Orcs… against Éomer and his éored. Which was down ten men, give or take. Eighty Uruk Hai versus a hundred and ten men on horses…

Even if they did outnumber the Uruk Hai, humans only had so much endurance. They would have to take the Uruk Hai by surprise from behind.

Turning, Harry decided to get his tactic approved by the others. "Roughly eighty Uruk Hai against roughly one hundred and ten of Éomer's men. I believe we should ambush the enemy from behind."

The men turned to Théodred for his thoughts. Harry mentally rolled his eyes; of course Théodred's men wouldn't move until their prince's command. He couldn't blame them, though. Théodred was their pillar and prince. No matter how much older Harry was, first, he didn't look it; second, they didn't trust in Harry's abilities enough; and last and most irritatingly of all, he was, by all appearances, a woman.

Thankfully, Théodred agreed to Harry's plan.

"Lady Holly is right. 'Twould be best to attack from behind… but how would we get behind them undetected?"

Harry really wished they would remember that he had the Elder Wand in his possession. He was getting tired of reminding the folks around him that he could use magic. Effectively _and_ efficiently.

Barring Maiar magic, which he could perform neither effectively nor efficiently.

It was with ill concealed impatience that Harry caught Aragorn's eye, to which the dúnadan quickly responded, firmly reminding the group, "Let us remember that Lady Holly can use sorcery."

"Ah, yes. We have magic on our side. A blessing indeed." Théodred said before adding darkly, "If used for the right reasons. Let us not forget what Saruman did to my father the King."

"I don't think anybody will forget anytime soon, my friend." Boromir reassured. "Let us get going before we lose any more time." The Gondorian turned toward Harry. "Holly?"

With some difficulty, Harry reached over to Boromir's horse and tapped his wand upon Boromir's head, performing the disillusionment charm. Boromir yelped a bit, presumably at the feeling not dissimilar to an egg cracking on one's head, and melted out of sight. Harry did the same to Boromir's horse. Afterwards, Harry turned his wand on the others. "Alright, who's next?"

* * *

**Frodo**

* * *

"Are you sure this'll work, Mister Frodo?" Sam whispered hoarsely.

Frodo kept his eyes closed. "We're supposed to be sleeping." He whispered back, almost inaudibly.

They were resting after hours of toiling and climbing up the outer fence. Night had fallen and now they were lying in wait, pretending to sleep. Legolas had left them earlier, promising that he would keep an eye on them, as the plan needed the two to be alone, but Sam seemed to have doubts. "He's a wily one, Mister Frodo. Are you sure he'll fall for the trap?" Sam whispered more softly this time.

"We'll just have to hope."

Then for a while, all was silent. Just as he was truly about to drift into sleep, he heard a familiar raspy voice.

"Thieves, they are. Filthy thieves. Where is it? Where did they put the precious? They stole it from us…" It steadily grew closer and closer and Frodo found it a struggle to keep his body still. "Nasty elf doesn't have it, we knows, yes, we knows. Hobbits… Bagginses… Thieves, filthy little thieves, it's ours, it is."

Frodo wasn't sure if he was imagining the smell of Gollum's breath.

"Where is it… my precious… My – " there was a choked shriek, and unable to keep still any longer, Frodo's eyes flew open. He saw Legolas some distance away, holding elven rope tight around Gollum's neck in a lariat; Gollum _was _actually a mere hand span (a_ hobbit's_ hand span, mind) away from both him and Sam. Scrambling away from the decrepit creature, Frodo drew out Sting from its sheath and pointed it at Gollum.

"Stay away. Stay away from us."

Gollum continued to flail his spindly limbs, choking on his own spit.

It made for a pitiful sight. For the first time, Frodo could see exactly why Bilbo had spared Gollum. Gollum had lost who knows how many years to his obsession for the ring, and was reduced to this miserable creature filled with paranoia, with a split personality to top it all off.

Slowly, Frodo lowered his sword. He turned to the wood elf, and was surprised to see cold, merciless eyes as Gollum began to asphyxiate before their very eyes. "Legolas!" he cried out. "You're choking him!"

Sam protested, "He's after the Ring, Mister Frodo! You can't leave him alive, he won't rest until you're dead!"

Frodo looked back at Legolas, who had loosened the tautness of the lasso, his eyes less icy than before. "Frodo is right, Sam. I got a bit carried away. We need him."

Bewildered, Sam asked, "We do?"

The rope around Gollum's neck was looser, but it didn't seem to lessen the pain as he wailed, "It burns! It burns us!"

Legolas tightened the loop once more, cutting off Gollum's screams. "Quiet, before every orc in Mordor hears you." To Sam, he answered, "And yes, we need him. He has escaped from Mordor before. If he has escaped once, he must know the way in unnoticed."

Seeing Gollum's eyes tearing up in pain, Frodo took pity on the creature and said quietly and firmly, "We should loosen the rope. It's three to one, and you have your arrows and knives. He doesn't have a chance." His eyes met Legolas' blue-grey ones; they briefly reminded Frodo of steel in both color and hardness, but they relented.

Loosening his grip on the rope once again, albeit reluctantly, Legolas said, "As you will it, Frodo. But a warning. Gollum may have had help at the time, but once my kin lost track of him, even they were unable to trace him down. I do not pretend to be humble, but do not overestimate my abilities."

Meanwhile, Gollum had taken advantage of the return of his breath to go back to caterwauling. "Takes it off of us! It burns us!"

To Frodo's surprise, Sam took matters into his own hands in a rather aggressive manner by slamming Gollum into the rock cliff. "Oh shut up! Forget Mordor, if orcs all the way back at Moria can't hear you, I'll eat my feet! I ought to – "

"Sam!" Frodo admonished, having gathered his bearings once more.

"I agree with Sam on the volume part, if a bit exaggerated. Perhaps a gag will work." Legolas suggested.

Dismayed, Frodo protested, "No! How do you expect him to cooperate with us if we treat him so cruelly?"

Gollum immediately stopped his wailing. Breathlessly, he turned his large eyes to Frodo. "Yes, we will cooperate if it takes the rope off us. We swears." He broke out into coughing. "Gollum! Gollum!"

Scowling, Sam pointed his index finger at Gollum accusingly. "Why should we believe you?"

"We swears! We swears on… on the precious! We swears on the precious!"

Frodo knew how much Gollum obsessed over the ring, but… he motioned for Sam to let go of Gollum, who immediately crumpled to the ground to all fours, piteously looking up at them. Looking down, Frodo said, "I want to believe you. I really do. But I don't want you to swear on the ring." Frodo knelt down to match Gollum's level and look him eye to eye. "I want you to swear on the name of Sméagol." Gollum's eyes widened at the name he hadn't heard willingly spoken from another mouth for centuries. "Your name before you became Gollum."

For a long time, all Frodo heard was a deafening silence. Just as he was about to give up, Gollum spoke.

"Sméagol… Sméagol swears."

There was no coughing this time.

* * *

**Éowyn**

* * *

It seemed like hours after her cousin had ordered her to stay behind with the halflings. She knew Théodred meant well, but that still didn't prevent her from resenting him. He _knew_ that she fought well with a blade – why couldn't she fight alongside him? They had sparred as children, but once they had reached a certain age, he had started treating her differently and disapproving of some of her unladylike behavior.

She glared down at the sword in her lap.

"We're sorry." The halfling who had ridden with her – Merry – said.

She was taken aback at the apology. "What for?"

"For taking you away from the battle." Merry explained. "If it wasn't for us, you'd be with the others to recover your brother and his cavalry."

"Éored." She absently corrected.

"Yeah, Ayored, Merry, get it right." The halfling who had ridden with the Sorceress chimed in, and Éowyn had to repress a smile at his exaggerated pronunciation.

Merry scowled at his counterpart. "Yes, well. Éored, then." He turned back to Éowyn. "But all the same, we're sorry you have to protect us."

Éowyn forced a smile on her face. "No, not at all Merry. It's fine."

Though Merry gave her a dubious look, he said no more, as if he sensed that it was a sensitive subject.

It was lucky that the strange silver cloak that Lady Holly gave her served not only to make the wearer invisible, but seemed to be wrinkle-proof as well. If not, the cloak would have been returned a wrung out mess from all the agitated twisting Éowyn had done to it. Yet despite what it had been through, the cloth remained almost liquid to the touch.

Besides, it wasn't as if she would ever have use it…

"Hey…" Pippin broke the silence.

Both Éowyn and Merry looked at him.

"Do you see that?" He was pointing in the direction the sun was… west, Éowyn estimated. With the sun in her eyes, she couldn't, but it seemed that Merry did, judging from his sharp intake of breath.

"What is it?"

By now, though she couldn't see it, she could _feel_ the earth trembling slightly beneath her feet. And as much as she wanted to believe it was Théodred's return for them, as the trembling drew near, she could tell the hoof beats weren't those of horses.

"…Let's just say that pretty soon, Holly's cloak would be a lot more useful round your shoulders than strung out in your hands." Pippin said nervously.

No sooner than Éowyn had clasped on the cloak and pulled the hood over her head, an army of foul creatures came into her view as well. She'd been so swaddled up in cloth and protected that though she'd seen Dunlandings, she'd never seen what she now assumed were orcs.

Momentarily, she stood, frozen in fear before she managed to gather her bearings and grab both Merry and Pippin's hands and ran for Fangorn Forest. She took pride in her skill with a sword, but she was no fool; she stood no chance against a party of orcs, especially while protecting two halflings.

* * *

**Harry**

* * *

After putting the disillusionment and silencing charm on everyone with the promises of releasing the spells after the first strike, Harry led (at least he hoped he was; he couldn't see them) the others to attack from behind.

If anybody saw Harry, they would have seen him lift a hand and whisper seemingly to nobody, "We're downwind, they shouldn't be able to smell us. Stick to the plan and all should go well."

Last of all, Harry performed the disillusionment charm on himself, signaling the start of the plan.

The plan was for Aragorn, Boromir and one of Théodred's men to attack the left wing, while Harry himself attacked the right; he had surrendered the center to Théodred and his remaining men. He had relinquished the position of leader to Théodred and (his thoughts soured somewhat) though he no longer produced as much testosterone as before, he still understood the need to take point as the leader.

Although unable to hear Déaþscúa's hoofbeats, Harry could feel them thundering beneath him as the Uruk Hai came into view. He was suddenly very glad he had silenced the Rohirrim, as he was sure they would be yelling out their war cry. But he had intentionally made the disillusionment charm somewhat fragile; one sword strike against another and the spell would shatter upon contact.

Hopefully.

Elsewise, it would be difficult to know when to cast a _finite_ spell with a very wide radius.

As he neared the enemy, Harry thought that if all else failed, maybe he could release the spell once Uruk Hai heads started flying.

Luckily, all went according to plan and the disillusionment spell broke after the first few kills and the Uruk Hai army was sufficiently distracted by the ambush. Harry still cast a finite spell to make sure that there was no friendly sword slashing, just because one Rohirrim couldn't see another. Besides, he was receiving some hostile looks from his fellow attackers, probably because they couldn't hear their own war cries.

The Rohirrim fighting against the Uruk Hai beforehand had looks of mixed confusion and relief, even if it was only six men and one woman that came as back up. They had gained an element of surprise.

The wargs that the Uruk Hai rode on were less surprised than their riders, but as their little rescue party was downwind, they were caught off guard nonetheless.

It was a matter of minutes to tell that the tide of the battle had turned; it wasn't like the Rohirrim had been losing in the first place, but once the smarter and more cowardly Uruk Hai had fled, the remaining Uruk Hai were scissored in with nowhere to go.

Check, and mate. Harry's red-haired friend would be proud of him. His childhood friend had always been good at chess.

Soon, the remaining Uruk Hai had been captured and Théodred had pulled a man whom Harry assumed was Éowyn's brother into a bear hug.

As Théodred filled in Éomer of the happenings while he was in exile, Harry looked down at his wand, which he could have sworn that his wand had been see through for a moment. Something was wrong. It seemed Déaþscúa sensed it as well, as he was agitatedly pawing at the ground.

"It seems I have you to thank for more than one thing, Lady Holly. I am Éomer." Théodred's cousin's deep voice cut into Harry's thoughts.

"It was no trouble." Harry said distractedly. "You should thank your younger sister; it was she who asked me to find you." A thought tickled the back of his mind when he said that.

Éomer smiled. "'Twill be time for thanks once we reunite in Edoras."

Boromir clapped him on the back. "You won't have to ride that long, my friend. She waits only a few leagues away."

Brow furrowing, Éomer turned to Théodred, "You brought her along?"

Théodred shook his head. "She could not be dissuaded, Cousin. It was all we could do to keep her from the battlefield."

From the battlefield… Harry immediately realized what Déaþscúa had been trying to communicate. "Some of the Uruk Hai had fled from the battle!" Harry called out, pointing in the direction they had gone.

"That means they are cowards." Éomer said scornfully.

"That may be, but they fled in the direction your sister and two of our companions await." If Aragorn could ever panic, this was as close as he got.

Wordlessly, Harry held out a hand to Aragorn, and it seemed that he understood; he grasped it without hesitation. As Harry reached over to lay a hand on Aragorn's horse, the dúnadan said to Boromir, "Let us meet in Gondor."

And with a crack, Harry apparated with Aragorn alongside him, back to the edge of the whispering forest.

* * *

A/N: Eheh. Long time no update? I'm so sorry it's so short! I have no excuse except that RL came crashing down around my ears.


	19. Of Wood and Wands

**Fundamental Disclaimer: **Neither the HP universe nor Tolkeinverse belong to me.

**A/N:** err…long time no write? Truth is, I wrote a version of this chapter a back in winter of 2014 and my computer just went kaput and it disappeared, so I was kind of mad and ignored this story… forgive this humble writer for taking out her anger on a (relatively) innocent story.

* * *

**Back to the Beginning**

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen**

Of Woods and Wands

* * *

**Éowyn**

* * *

She ran as fast as could, which a small prideful part of her thought was fairly fast, considering that a halfling – deceptively heavy folk that they were – weighed her down in each hand.

They were headed toward Fangorn Forest, where they had the most hope of shaking the Orcs off of their trail. For the briefest of moments, Éowyn entertained the certainty of getting lost, but the more optimistic and desperate part of her mind reminded her there was an enchantress who could find people, so she quashed that thought. Now was the time for action, not for pondering on despondent thoughts.

Even once they were well within the forest, Éowyn forced back the sigh of relief that threatened to spill forth from her lips, for they were not out of danger yet. She lost track of the times that she forced the hobbits to double back and go in another direction. Finally, after an hour of harried running, Pippin threw himself flat on the mossy forest floor and cried mercy.

"I don't care if I get eaten or captured or killed, I'm not moving another inch!" He panted. "Go on without me."

Éowyn, almost equally tired out, chanced a cursory look around. Seeing nothing, she leaned back against a tree trunk, exhaling heavily as she pushed back the hood of sorceress Holly's cloak. "I believe we are safe. I have not heard them for a while now."

The halflings tiredly raised their heads, Pippin from the forest floor, and Merry from between his knees from his sitting position, looking at her resentfully.

"You could have told us when you thought it was safe." Pippin muttered.

Giving the halfling a sharp look, Éowyn reprimanded, "It is always better to err on the side of caution than not, especially when your life is on the line."

At this, she saw Merry nod, if a bit reluctantly.

After a bit, Éowyn followed the halflings' example and sat down onto the forest floor as gracefully as she could manage in her post-flight-for-her-life mode. Even though the ache was starting to set in her muscles after dragging around two halflings on an uneven forest floor for nigh an hour, it would not do for the king's niece to show weakness _and_ ungainliness. It would not do to lose face, even if there were only two halflings to witness it.

They sat in a heavy silence for nearly half an hour, in which Éowyn thought she heard rhythmic thuds that nearly lulled her into slumber. And she _would_ have fallen asleep if it hadn't registered in her mind that the sounds were slowly growing louder in volume and thereby suggesting a reduction in distance. Forcibly shaking off her weariness by standing, Éowyn looked around, not expecting to see anything. And true to her expectations, all she saw were the trees surrounding them.

Perhaps her tiredness was causing her to imagine things… "Do you hear that?" She asked the halflings uncertainly.

From their faces and wary postures – Pippin had sat up – she confirmed it hadn't been her imagination. None of them could muster the strength to flee from whatever was making the noise. Merry voiced her very thoughts as well.

"We don't have any energy left to run."

But apparently, Pippin still had enough energy to work himself into a panic. "Then what do we do?"

Making a vaguely irritated face at his fellow halfling, Merry gestured toward his cloak. "What are we wearing, Pip?"

"Uh… Clothes?" Then Pippin's face lit up. "Oh! Our cloaks!"

The Rohirrim shieldmaiden hurriedly took up the silvery cloak once more and wrapped it around her person as Merry and Pippin situated themselves near trees and neatly camouflaged themselves into their surroundings with the help of their cloaks.

As the dull thuds came closer, shaking the very ground they stood upon, Éowyn pressed herself closer to the tree.

**"Hrmm."** A deep voice echoed through the forest. **"Hrum…I can feel it…around here…"**

It was a tree. A walking, talking _tree._ No matter how slowly it talked, it was still _talking. _As what eerily resembled a face on the tree trunk turned toward her, Éowyn felt her mind immediately go blank with what she would later recognize as terror.

**"Aaah. Here it is. Hum."**

Next thing Éowyn knew, she was dangling in the air by Enchantress Holly's cloak. She was definitely visible now, and she was barely holding onto the cloak as it was, spilling out of the slippery folds, the only thing keeping her from a nasty fall to the ground.

**"Humm, it is true, then… Sataressë has returned."** It peered at Éowyn. **"And, well. What…are you? Mm… You look unlike the other orcs I found in my forest."**

The creature's statement was met with fearful silence, broken only by Éowyn's shallow breaths. She could only pray that the halflings wouldn't come out and fan the fire.

"H-hey! Let her go!" Despite his tremulous voice, Merry, brandishing his sword, looked convincingly brave. Not long after, Pippin's voice joined Merry's.

"Yeah! Put her down!"

Though Éowyn did suppress her groan, she could not help but close her eyes and grimace.

The tree gave two thunks to turn and face the revealed halflings. Éowyn shouted, "Run, you two!"

"Hmmp." Was the only grumpy sounding warning the tree gave as it snagged the two halflings with just a twig, while they struggled to get free before Merry shouted at Pippin to 'give up, they were being held too high.'

**"I…will deal with you two…after **_**this**_** one,"** the mobile tree turned back and gave Éowyn a little shake and it took all of her willpower not to squeak in terror as she clutched to the Lady Holly's cloak all the more tightly, dangling from the hem. She would not give anybody, much less a _tree_, the satisfaction of showing her fear in the face of imminent danger. It took Éowyn several moments to muster up the saliva and courage to speak.

"I-I'm not an orc." Éowyn cursed the tremor in her voice.

**"That is, then, as I suspected. Hum. Tell me. What… are you? You look human. But one never knows in these times."**

Voice stronger this time, Éowyn said, "I _am_ human. My name is Éowyn, sister-daughter to the King of the Mark, shieldmaiden of the Rohirrim." She looked into the knotholes that seemed to be the eyes of whatever had captured her, and stated as bravely as she could, "I have stated my name and identity. It is only fair that you give yours in return." She immediately regretted her words as the knotholes tightened, but was surprised when she heard rumbling chuckles.

**"Hrmm. Bold, you are, as Sataressë was. Yes. Sataressë was always bold-hearted, I remember. Especially when she made a small branch a request from me. Firstborn of the Ents, and most powerful of them all, a single limb she asked me to grant her. Yes. Furious, Mother was. She chased Sataressë out and banned her from the garden. But later Sataressë showed me what she made out of my gift to her."**

All the while during the little _anecdote_, Éowyn's grip on Lady Holly's frustratingly slippery cloak had been getting steadily weaker and weaker. She tried to distract herself by wondering whether the tree was in its right mind, believing it had a mother.

**"Hrum. This silver…fabric. I ask you, where did you get it?"**

Gritting her teeth, Éowyn strained out, "A sorceress…lent it to me…granted me permission…"

**"…Oh…?"**

Abruptly, Éowyn felt herself being lowered and her feet bumped harshly to the ground. Heart thundering in her chest, Éowyn couldn't help but feel very relieved, despite a thrum of worry concerning the halflings still dangling high up in the foliage. "Why do you ask after this cloak? I can hardly imagine you desire to use it. And please put those two down. I can vouch that they aren't orcs."

The tree eyed Éowyn with what could only be _suspicion_ and replied in its slow voice, **"No one is trustworthy…not in these past millenia. Why should I tell you? How do I know if you are lying…and are allied with Saruman…or not, hrmm?"**

Outraged at the insinuation that she could ever ally herself with the despicable wizard, Éowyn momentarily forgot that Merry and Pippin were at the mercy of the tree and cried out angrily, "And how do _I_ know you are trustworthy or not, when I don't even know what you are? What _are_ you?"

The tree reared angrily, thundering over the halflings' shouts of fear, **"I? What am I, you ask? I. Am an Ent. You ask for my name, hmm? My name. Is Fangorn."**

Fangorn? "As in this forest? You have the same name as Fangorn forest?" Éowyn blurted out without thinking.

Éowyn found herself face to bark as the…Ent… crouched down dangerously close to her. **"Yes. This forest. This forest, humans named after **_**me**_**. Fangorn is **_**my**_** name."** Éowyn was quite relieved when the Ent stood straight again, accompanied once again by the cadence of the halflings' yells. **"They also call me Treebeard, they do."** By then, anger in the ent's voice had subsided somewhat. **"Why do I ask after the cloak, you ask? Hum. Well. It belongs to Sataressë. I can feel it. It feels…similar…to what she made out of the branch I gave her."**

Éowyn tried to ignore the fact that the self-proclaimed Ent was answering her questions even after protest and belatedly; though it was Rohirrim custom to examine gift-mearas' teeth, in this case, she knew better than to look at this particular gift-mearas in the mouth. Now if she could just get the Ent to release the halflings…

With alarming alacrity, the Ent turned his…head, face, whatever it was, to what Éowyn estimated to be southwest, judging from what little light filtered through the canopy in the slowly chilling eve. Éowyn flinched when the Ent suddenly addressed her in his slow, gravelly voice, **"Seems that I shall be able to tell whether you were telling the truth or not."**

No sooner had he finished saying that, did Éowyn hear a distinct cracking noise accompanied by a startled neigh.

* * *

**Harry**

* * *

"Point me, Éowyn!"

Harry had long ago discovered that the 'point me' spell would not work on pseudonyms or nicknames, and he found Éowyn easier to pronounce than, say, Meriadoc or even Peregrin. Fewer mouth movements.

Leaving the battlefield with Aragorn, Harry had first apparated back to where they had first parted paths with Éowyn and the hobbits and confirmed his fears. After both Aragorn and his steed had recovered from the undeniably queer sensation of side-long apparation, (Déaþscúa hadn't even blinked) the Ranger had dismounted his horse and examined the ground.

"…Wargs." Aragorn grimly verified.

Harry took out the wand that was clearly growing more translucent as time went on, and muttered, "Point me, Peregrin." Almost as if pained, the wand spun slowly around, quivering to a strained stop pointing toward the forest. "Point me, Meriadoc." The wand didn't move. "Point me, Éowyn." Still the wand stubbornly pointed in one direction. Hoping to dear Ilúvatar that the wand wasn't malfunctioning and that three truly were still together, Harry grabbed the slowly fading wand and quickly motioned for Aragorn to mount his horse again. The next apparation point was the edge of the forest.

"Alright, let's switch it up then. Point me, Meriadoc." The Elder Wand creaked reluctantly to the left. "Point me Peregrin. Point me Éowyn." The wand stayed stationary. "Seems they really did stay in one group. Let's go." Without having to nudge Déaþscúa forward, the black stallion trotted forward into the forest.

Having ascertained that all three of them were roughly in the same place and not had not been separated, Harry had then used Éowyn's name the most.

"Point me, Éowyn!" The Elder Wand twitched and faded some more. Harry felt the ridiculous urge to bite his lip in…what, uncertainty? Anxiety? Dismay? Alarm? _Terror?_ His best weapon was _becoming transparent_ for Valinor's sake!

Aragorn must have seen the consternation on Harry's face as he offered, "Let us return to the last we saw of their tracks. I can find them. You forget that I am a Ranger."

A bit of sheepishness squashed Harry's panic down. Right. Aragorn possessed tracking skills that could overcome the undoubtedly intentional confusion caused by what he observed were several overlapping sets of footprints that appeared to have doubled back and looped around several times.

Keeping a wary eye on the Elder Wand, Harry followed Aragorn through the twists and turns. The King's niece was undoubtedly cautious, Harry thought with grim approval, although it was turning out to be extremely inconvenient for them in this scenario.

Suddenly, his wand violently whirled a full 360 degrees and, for lack of a better term, _pulled_ at Harry, causing him to instinctively grab ahold of both Aragorn and his steed before they could get separated by something Harry couldn't describe as anything but _involuntary_ apparation.

This time even Harry found _himself_ nearly prey to apparation sickness as he barely had time to prepare before his magic whisked him and his companions away. They appeared before frightened hobbits, Éowyn, and what looked like a personified tree.

In a slow, vaguely familiar voice, the tree – _the tree _– said, **"Aaah, Sataressë. It feels like some time has passed since we last met, even for me."**

Inundated by Sataressë' memories of the tree – Fangorn – Harry forced himself to stay calm and reply, "Yes, Fangorn, Ages have passed. But I was under the impression that you did not interfere in the doings of short-lived beings. Has that changed in my absence?"

"**Hrum. Your sense of humor has not changed, Sataressë… No, you know very well what reason I have come… do you not?"**

No, Harry did not. Sataressë might, but she staunchly refused to further aid Harry in the matter. It occurred to Harry that Sataressë might know the reason why the Elder Wand was flickering in and out of existence, as well. Cursing the ageless being in his mind, Harry said out loud, "Come come, Fangorn. Humor me, are we not friends of old?" He could now easily affect Sataressë's manner of speech to fool most everybody but Galadriel; it seemed to fool the tree as well.

"**I came because I sensed one of the three…two now, I suppose it is, hrmm… but that is the oddly delicate staff you made from my branch… is it not?" **Fangorn pointed at Harry's hand with a twig finger.

Harry immediately looked down at the unstable Elder Wand. So it was crafted from Fangorn's branch? And by Sataressë herself? But that suggested…

Harry's gaze swept over his companions in search for his Invisibility Cloak, and found it almost wrung out in Éowyn's hands. Inwardly urgent, Harry forced himself to look calm and approached the King's niece as he would a skittish animal. Holding a hand out, he asked gently, "May I?"

Éowyn's eyes met his, and her desperate clutch on the cloak loosened. Hesitantly, she lowered the silvery fabric into his hands, and as soon as the liquid material grazed his skin, the Elder Wand flared for a moment before settling into a slightly more stable form. Harry heaved a private sigh of relief; at least it was solid now, if a bit transparent.

He stole a glance at Fangorn, who was watching the exchange with knowing eyes, and Harry hoped to Ilúvatar that his hunch was right. Neatly folding the cloak over an arm, Harry walked smoothly over to Fangorn, holding out the Elder Wand to the moving tree.

"Would you like to see your branch once more? It seems like it sensed your presence and desired to connect with its origins once more." The latter sentence was utter horsefeathers, but Harry took the risks that he must in order to maintain the façade that he was Sataressë.

The gamble paid off, as Fangorn slowly nodded and plucked the 'oddly delicate staff' from Harry's hand with surprising dexterity. Immediately, there was a flash of bright sparks, and Harry didn't have to look to know that whatever had been wrong with the Elder Wand was now fixed. At least for the time being.

"**Ahh…this is… truly a masterpiece indeed, Sataressë. It may have been made from my branch, but 'twas an ingenious idea to request a live branch in the first place. Hum."**

By now, Harry was fairly sure that Sataressë was the creator of all three Deathly Hallows. He frowned, not quite sure what the significance of the Deathly Hallows were anymore, or who on Arda came up with such a ridiculous name for them…but there were more important things currently at hand. Almost on instinct, Harry banished both cloak and wand from the physical plain as soon as his wand touched his skin.

Wait, that wasn't right.

His?

No, Harry was an anomalous Ainu, a sexless being borne from nothingness before being called upon by Ilúvatar to aid –

Harry shook his head vehemently. Strange thoughts were occurring to him lately. First he had inadvertently started to think of the Elder Wand as his own, then this? Forcing the thoughts away, Harry returned to the current situation and turned to Éowyn. "Your brother is safe with your cousin and his Éored."

There was a pause, as Harry still felt a bit guilty over leaving Éowyn behind, only to place her in more danger, but fortunately, Aragorn spoke before the silence became too awkward. "His Éored were fighting an army of orcs, and our party took the orcs by surprise. But a few managed to flee, and we feared they had gone your direction. It seems that our fears were not unfounded. Thank you for protecting Merry and Pippin, my lady."

Éowyn's cheeks reddened slightly and she nodded once. Pippin chimed in, "She dragged Merry and me around everywhere, we must have run around the forest at least three times!"

"And Pip here is quite heavy on his own," said Merry, jabbing Pippin with an elbow. More seriously, he added, "We quite owe our lives to Lady Éowyn."

"I still think we could have done without all that doubling back and running around though." Pippin frowned comically.

"That's funny, because I was under the impression you didn't think, Pip." Merry retorted, lightening the mood.

Harry smiled ruefully. "Yes, even we had some trouble finding you, and Aragorn is the best tracker I know. You did very well, Lady Éowyn." He felt the need to affirm the Shieldmaiden, as he had the sense that she hid insecurity beneath her proud exterior. But there was still the matter of Fangorn, so Harry turned back to the tree – or rather _Ent_, his mind oh-so-helpfully supplied – and stated the first thing that came to his still Sataressë-saturated mind, "I have noticed the diminishing of the forests in Arda. What of Fimbrethil? Is she around?"

At the mention of the name that slipped ever so easily out of Harry's mouth, Fangorn's branches drooped. Belatedly, Harry recalled learning that Sauron's forces had decimated the gardens of the Entwives back in the Second Age.

"**All of the Entwives disappeared…we looked and looked, and now so few of us ents remain. I myself feel the call of the roots more and more strongly…Perhaps it's Kementári's will. Finglas has already half-succumbed…" **Fangorn said mournfully.

Harry held back a flinch. The call of the roots… Surely Yavanna wouldn't leave the Ents to become regular trees, would she? Her own children, who call her Kementári so faithfully even still? "What of Valinor? I am sure Kementári would welcome your presence."

Fangorn shook his leaves sorrowfully. **"What good is living forever without the love of my life? No, I would take root before going to the Undying Lands."**

A bitterness filled Harry, and he felt a brief resentment and envy at the ease with which Ents could escape the living world. They could abandon their physical bodies to rest permanently. If only –

Harry cut off the thought right there; it was another one of the strange, stray thoughts that did not belong to him that were occurring more often these days. To stave off the feeling of losing himself, Harry pressed on, "What of the forests, then? Is your task not to tend to them?"

It must have seemed like Harry was accusing Fangorn, for the ent reply bordered on aggression. **"The forests decrease at a rate that has not been seen since the like of the Dwarf Kings' rule. Nobody is on our side."**

Taken aback by the ent's vehemence, Harry hurried to assure Fangorn, "My, er, staff is made from your heartwood; you have my allegiance. Shall I speak to Kementári on your behalf? Worry not, for I am on your side." In hindsight, Harry realized that was a rather reckless offer to make; it was one thing to fool the children of Ilúvatar; but if Galadriel, a _child_ of Ilúvatar – albeit, arguably the wisest – could see through his deception, how could he possibly hope to fool the Valar, who helped _create_ the children of Ilúvatar? Mandos had seen through him the moment Harry had uttered his name.

But even Fangorn seemed to wilt right before his eyes, practically withering in on himself.

"**You have the gratitude of the Ents, Sataressë… but times have changed. It is the time of Men now. The most Kelementári can do is send an Istar to represent her, and when even you do not have the power to right the many wrongs done to us…what help can others be?"**

Harry tried to recall the melody taught to Sataressë by Yavanna – or was it her younger sister Vána? – to make soil soft and trees grow, but it was all a most fruitless effort, and he grit his teeth at the pun his mind had unintentionally made.

A hand came down on Harry's shoulder, almost making him jump. The hand belonged to Aragorn and as Harry tried to silently communicate his quandary, Aragorn shook his head. _'There is nothing you can do,'_ he was thinking, and Morgoth burn it all, the dúnadan was right.

Drawing in a deep breath, Harry steeled himself. "Well, Fangorn, if you ever need me…remember that the focus of most of my magic is connected to your wood." It pained him to say it, but… "We must go now."

"**Aye. Sataressë. I will escort you and your companions to the edge of the forest."**

* * *

**Aragorn**

* * *

Aragorn had heard tales of Ents – Onodrim, Tree-hosts, the elves called them – from Elrond whilst growing up, but never had he thought that he would get the chance to look upon one. Especially the most ancient one of all, the being that Fangorn forest was named after. With some awe, Aragorn periodically shot glances at the group riding on Fangorn – or Treebeard, the Ent had offered.

The hobbits had made themselves comfortable on Treebeard's right shoulder. As for Holly, after a moment of hesitation and – dare he say it? – _communion_ with Déaþscúa, she had given the stallion an apologetic pat and a warning look before handing the reins over to Théoden's niece. Aragorn looked on, and it wasn't difficult to camouflage his amusement with worry when Éowyn was understandably wary.

"But is this not the curs – "

Holly interrupted as she was wont to do when met with nonsense, saying, "I'm sure that you will meet with no harm upon Déaþscúa. It is not battle we're riding into." She ended her statement with a pointed look at her steed which hinted at what they had communicated about earlier, to which the stallion gave an answering snort. "Besides, it has been a long time since I have…ridden anything, so as of now, I'm rather stiff."

Aragorn himself was barely able to stifle his own snort in time. As it was, he let out a strangled sound that earned him concerned looks from all save Holly. Holly herself granted him a disgruntled half-glare, as if she knew that had been his hasty substitute for laughter. Her movements as she settled herself on Treebeard's other shoulder, however, suggested nothing of saddle pains, so Aragorn knew not whether Holly had uttered a kind falsehood, or simply excelled at hiding the pain. From what Aragorn knew of Holly, it was more likely to be the latter. The maia could most likely bear fatal wounds with a straight face anyway.

Soon, the motley party consisting of an ent, a maia, a dúnadan, a human, two hobbits, and two horses took off. Treebeard had set the pace with the two steeds trotting behind him.

Aragorn's mind wandered, from regretting the last words of 'meeting at Gondor' he had tossed to Boromir, to pondering the method of travel they should use. A hobbit was a tad bit heavy to ride with a man… but he could not count on Holly being able to use that nauseating method of transport of hers. And though the carved stick was seemingly restored; he just did not trust it any more. He suspected Holly did not either; he had not seen it since its apparent restoration, which spoke volumes.

As the hobbits relaxed and began to chatter at Treebeard, Théoden's niece, who had overcome her doubts about the stallion she rode, fell into line beside his own stallion and asked him a question.

"How is it that you know my uncle?"

Feeling a corner of his lips tilt upward, Aragorn said, "I knew him when he was young."

The young woman frowned. "That…doesn't make sense."

"I rode with King Théoden's father, King Thengel. Your grandfather."

At this, Éowyn looked thoroughly startled, amusing Aragorn. "But that must make you… what, at least sixty!"

Aragorn tucked a smile into his cheek. Taking his silence as a 'no' Éowyn hazarded another guess. "…Seventy?"

Still he kept his silence, and Éowyn exclaimed in dismay, "You cannot be eighty!" At this point, Aragorn could hide his smile no longer.

"Eighty-seven."

Had Déaþscúa been any other steed, he would have become restless upon sensing Éowyn's distress and disbelief. But as it was, the stallion merely whickered.

"I take it Prince Théodred did not tell you who I was."

Éowyn flushed. "I mean, I know your name – "

The dúnadan was still unused to revealing who he was to relative strangers, but he would bet Amdirsil that Holly was eavesdropping on their conversation with great interest at this point, and would be unimpressed by his current line of thought.

'Good thing she can't read thoughts.' Aragorn thought with grim humor.

'_Don't be so sure.'_ A voice with disturbing likeness to Holly's sounded in Aragorn's head, but when he glanced suspiciously up at where she was perched up on Treebeard's left shoulder, seemingly listening to the hobbits' animated talk with all her attention. Half parts hounded with paranoia and half parts inclined to put the poor King's niece out of her misery, Aragorn spoke up once more.

"As you say, my name is Aragorn," this was the part where he was supposed to declare that he was the son of Arathorn and Chief of the Dunedain, heir to Ilendil and rightful King of Gondor, but that sounded so…boastful.

So he altered what he was originally going to say. "…But your grandfather knew me as Thorongil of Gondor when I rode with him."

And there it was, a distinctly and oppressively disappointed feeling echoing throughout his thoughts, and Aragorn's paranoia was drawn up further. 'Perhaps she's the one who taught Lady Galadriel how to project her thoughts,' Aragorn mused, as he mustered up the mental fortitude necessary to vocally claim his birthright.

'_Indeed, I did teach Galadriel. But the manner in which you think of it…I suppose she abused my teachings often?'_

Suppressing the impulse to look once more at Holly, Aragorn asked Éowyn, "Are you familiar with the Dúnedain?"

"Initially I thought them to have been the last of the Númenóreans faded into legend, but now that I find myself riding beside one, yes, I suppose I am."

"So you are aware of our longevity." Aragorn did not have to work hard to sound rueful. He was acutely aware that his kind were the envy of 'normal' men, but regarded by pity by some elves. Ah, his Ada's twin and his own ancestor, Elros's decision… The start and the eventual source of the turning point of Númenórean history.

"The long lives blessed upon the Dúnedain are of great legend." Éowyn acknowledged. She hesitated, before asking, "Pardon my candor, but does it not get lonely?"

It was Aragorn's turn to dip his head in acknowledgment, but he qualified, "'Tis true, I have seen many age and pass by, but it is not so lonely, as I have spent some time leading my people." There, he had slipped another hint in.

'_Too slow,'_ the voice dryly projected into his mind once more. _'The ents move like elves in comparison.'_

Aragorn wanted to protest, but Éowyn was addressing him again.

"So you are the leader of the Dúnedain."

"Aye. I am the chief, and heir of Ilendil." There, he had said it.

'_You left out the part about being the rightful King of Gondor, but I'll stop nagging you about it.' _The voice he had dubbed as Holly's echoed through his mind. _'For now.'_

Outside of his mind, in the physical realm, there was an awed silence before Éowyn voiced, "So you should be the King of Gondor."

Aragorn felt slightly relieved that Éowyn's knowledge extended that far, but as he had dreaded, Holly's snide thoughts snuck into his mind. _'Must be nice, for your first foray into political self-introduction to be with someone quick on the uptake.'_

"Will you take your crown one day?"

Turning forward, Aragorn said quietly, "I must."

It was, after all, a requirement Elrond had set for him to wed his daughter. To become King of not only Gondor, but also King of Arnor. He would have to reunite the kingdoms, a difficult task, as Arnor was currently no more than fragments, scattered villages that had very little idea of a monarchy.

The Evenstar shifted just to the right of his heart, and he knew it was no less than Arwen deserved. Like Beren* for Lúthien before him, Aragorn was willing to go to the ends of Middle-Earth for the love of his life.

_[Beren*: the man that won the heart of elven maiden Lúthien, daughter of King Thingol. Tasked to retrieve a silmaril from Morgoth's crown by Thingol for Lúthien's hand in marriage.]_

* * *

**Harry**

* * *

Harry took great satisfaction in provoking Aragorn by use of legilimency. Though it seemed like some of Sataressë's memories leaked into his consciousness halfway through.

But as satisfying as annoying Aragorn may have been, Harry was still disgruntled, as _he, Harry Potter_, had not been given much of a chance to adjust to his not insubstantial status as 'boy-who-lived' in his previous world. Previous world it may have been, impressions of being overwhelmed and beleaguered still remained. As far as Harry Potter was concerned, Aragorn had it easy, having gotten used to the idea of being King for several years, if not decades, now.

On a different vein of thought, had legilimency always come so effortlessly to him? Come to think of it, it was also in a slightly different form. Legilimency was usually came as visions and emotions, but this time…it was more like a conversation, as if he were projecting his voice into someone else's mind. Well, Harry figured the whys and hows didn't matter much for now; it would be quite useful in cases where he needed to talk privately among company. Or when he needed to converse with someone without seeming to. Like telepathy, which had never been considered possible in his previous world.

"- heard it was the North Moors…Holly, do you have any ideas where the entwives might be?"

Pippin's question pierced Harry's musings, and momentarily, Harry considered prevaricating with one idea he'd briefly entertained, before he decided it would be too cruel to the ents if he were wrong. Besides, he'd already made a blunder and asked where Fangorn's wife was, so he couldn't very well claim to know their whereabouts. "Well," Harry said slowly, "according to the records of the Woodland Elves, the Entwives gardens were destroyed." He shot Fangorn an apologetic look. "Though there is a chance that they reside with Kementári in the Undying Lands, whether she rescued them or they predicted the attack and left the gardens."

Considering that Entwives were as slow and deliberate as their male counterparts in decision-making, the chance of the latter was very low. Also, as long as they'd taken on a responsibility, the idea of them abandoning that responsibility – their gardens – to flee was preposterous.

Aware that they'd reached a sensitive topic, the hobbits steered the conversation in another direction by asking how Harry (or Holly, as it was for them) first met with Fangorn, and with quirked lips, the young Maia cheerfully humored them, starting from when Sataressë first approached Yavanna for her teachings.

In what seemed like no time at all, they had arrived at the edge of the forest. As they bid Fangorn farewell, they found themselves in a quandary of transportation. Harry simply did not have enough arms to apparate all of them to Edoras at once. So one way to go about it was to transform into a horse once more and travel there. The other way was to apparate there multiple times.

Harry wanted the latter. Problem was, Aragorn seemed to be of an opinion that he had more than his lifetime's share of sidelong apparations. So they were stuck in a heated argument about the method of transportation.

"It'll take that much longer to go by horse. Apparation is snap, snap, done!" With the added bonus of distracting Sauron.

"It frightens the horses!" Aragorn retorted. Then he muttered almost inaudibly, "And it makes _me_ ill."

"It's just for a moment. And Déaþscúa didn't even blink!"

"Déaþscúa is different. Have a care for others, Holly!"

"This _is_ me having a care! Time is of the essence, no? What's physical comfort got to do with it?"

Éowyn hesitantly asked, "Is this transportation what allowed you to…appear, earlier? In front of Treebeard?"

Pippin piped up, "Yeah! Isn't it? Merry and I never got to experience it!" Pausing for a moment, he continued in a more subdued manner, "Well, if Aragorn is that against it…"

Scoffing, Harry said, "Oh please." Not wanting to make Aragorn seem like a coward in front of his allies, however, Harry refrained from saying anything other than, "Perhaps _his highness_ feels like traveling by magic is cheating, for a ranger." _The things I do to spare your pride._

Merry mused, "Hm. I want to travel by magic at least once."

Seeing how Merry wanted to, Pippin too mustered up his courage. "Me too! Can you do it for us, at least?"

Dismounting Déaþscúa with a shy smile, Éowyn requested, "I as well, would like to travel by sorcery, once."

Unable to suppress a triumphant smile at Aragorn's souring expression, Harry said, "Yes, of course. Straight to Edoras, shall we?" Grasping Éowyn's hand, Harry declared, "Ladies first," to the hobbits, he added, "then I'll come back for you two." Shooting Aragorn a look, Harry warned, "And don't just go haring off to Gondor without me. As future King of Gondor _and _Arnor, you have a duty to allies."

Turning on his heel, Harry disapparated, taking Éowyn. They arrived outside the castle gates – Harry had no desire to be speared by the guards within the castle by suddenly appearing in the throne room – and Harry felt Éowyn stagger slightly beside him.

"So, how did 'travel by sorcery' treat you?" Harry asked.

As Harry had rather expected, Éowyn seemed be swallowing down her bile. "It's very efficient. And the sensation is quite…different." She bravely managed, not quite managing to hide her queasiness.

Going out on a limb and hoping the King's niece wouldn't think he was acting too familiarly with her, Harry moved his hand in soothing circles on Éowyn's back, the motions feeling familiar, like he'd done it in a previous life, except with someone close to him when that person – red hair flashed across his mind – wasn't feeling well. "I'll be right back, I'm just going to bring Merry and Pippin, now."

Harry popped back to where one disgruntled future king and two hopeful hobbits waited. Holding out a hand for each hobbit to grasp, Harry apparated straight to the castle gates where he'd left Éowyn, who was just starting to ask whether her brother and his Éored had returned yet.

To Harry's pleasant surprise, the hobbits only blinked. He recalled how Sam had merely stumbled a bit, when he'd sidelong apparated with him.

"Wow!"

"Amazing!"

The hobbits gushed and Harry smiled fondly at them, absently musing whether it was because hobbits had strong stomachs and ate so much that they were practically immune to apparation sickness.

"So, is Prince Théodred back?" Harry asked Éowyn, who nodded her head in a positive.

"They say my brother and cousin rode in about an hour ago. You have my eternal gratitude, Sorceress Holly."

"Well then, go on in and assure your brother and prince Théodred of your continued survival while I come back with Aragorn. If I don't return with him within five minutes, you can be sure he's bullied me into riding Déaþscúa back."

Flashing them a crooked smile, Harry disapparated with a crack.

* * *

**Gandalf**

* * *

The weary wizard cursed himself for falling for the trap – whether it had been set by Gollum or the Orcs, or a combined effort – so easily. He could only hope that Legolas could keep the hobbits safe. After the disaster that was the Black Gate, Gandalf had barely reached Gimli in time to save him. The dwarf had been doing fairly well, considering, but the wide swinging of an axe would not have kept up with the flying boulders and rocks for much longer. By the time Gandalf had reached him, Gimli had looked almost as dented as his armour.

Now they were headed to Minas Tirith, in hopes of meeting with Aragorn.

"So, it's down to three." Gimli stated.

Gandalf did not have to think to know what Gimli was talking about. "I hope it will be four, if Legolas understood me correctly."

"Four?" The dwarf was understandably confused.

The wizard uttered a single word. "Gollum."

Immediately, Gimli leapt to his feet. "What? You cannot be serious as to hope that creature will join them!"

Gandalf leveled stern eyes at the dwarf. "I am."

Gimli looked away first, but spat, "Pah! The elf will not allow it!"

"Do not be so sure, Gimli." Even if Legolas had changed irrevocably, Frodo was sure to have kept his words in mind. Why Bilbo had let Gollum live in the first place. Why he should pity the creature. "Legolas would not be so cruel, to kill Gollum before Frodo's eyes."

A gruff grunt was the mere reply, but Gandalf stood and dusted off his robes once more.

"Let us resume our journey."

* * *

**Aragorn**

* * *

With a loud crack, Holly reappeared beside her black steed. She opened her mouth to speak, but Aragorn beat her to it.

"I refuse that method of transportation."

Holly rolled her eyes. "Fine then." Frankly, Aragorn was surprised; he'd thought she would argue more. He watched as the carved stick of elder that had been troubling her so earlier appeared in Holly's right hand. She then held out her other hand to Aragorn. "Give me something."

Aragorn was caught off kilter. "What?"

Gesturing impatiently with her left hand, Holly repeated, "Give me something. Anything. An item you don't need."

Frowning uncertainly, Aragorn rifled through his pockets before he found a scrap of metal. A shard of his old sword, that Holly had broken, to be exact. Slightly reluctant to surrender it, slowly, he held it out, and Holly snatched it away before he could warn her it was sharp.

Although she cut herself, Holly didn't so much as blink, merely frowning in concentration. She tapped her wand against the leftover scrap metal, murmuring, "_Portus_." Both the carved stick and the piece of metal briefly glowed a blueish hue. She then held out the remains of Aragorn's sword back to him. "Here."

More confused than ever, Aragorn doubtfully took it back. And promptly felt a jerking sensation behind his navel as he found himself suddenly in a whirl of wind before his feet crashed into the ground. He was in front of Edoras' castle gates, with three pairs of eyes (two confused, one _green and smug_) staring at him. As his gaze stiffened into a glare, green eyes averted from his, Holly finally seeming to notice her bloody hand. His eyes swept over to see both his and Holly's horses, his horse the considerably more distressed of the two.

Reaching to where Holly stood in two long strides, Aragorn growled, "I suppose you apparated with my horse?"

Examining her injured hand with exaggerated interest, Holly countered blandly, "I suppose you didn't have anything other than a sharp steel shard?"

Aragorn knew her question was rhetorical. His query, however, was not. "What did you do?"

Holly quirked a grin. "That, my friend, was an alternate method of transportation. Did it better suit your tastes?"

It was indeed better than Holly's so-called apparating, but Aragorn had no intention of telling her that. Instead of answering her question, he sighed and crouched to address the hobbits. "Do you believe you can travel to Gondor with us today?"

Their answers were bemused positives, as if they were wondering why he was asking in the first place.

"Why not?"

"We've come this far, have't we? And we need to catch up with Boromir."

"Yeah, I figure he'll be lonely by himself."

Huffing a laugh, Aragorn stood and declared, "Then let us go and bid our farewells to Théoden and catch up with Boromir."

As they passed the guards, Pippin asked rather timidly, "Can we ask for some food as well? It's been a while since we've had food other than that elvish bread. What's it called?"

"Lembas bread." Aragorn answered kindly, but he felt his lips twitching.

Holly's laughed outright, before asking a guard who recognized them if he could lead them to kitchens. "We're a bit hungry," she justified cheerfully. "With hobbits around, I can trust never to forget about food again! I lost count of the days I had to make do, or go without."

Both Pippin and Merry donned appropriately horrified expressions at the thought of going without food for several days. Aragorn himself, as a Ranger, empathized with Holly, though he'd never be so foolish as to _forget_ to restock rations when in a town.

As they exited the royal kitchens, Merry looked thoughtfully at the bag of food and ingredients they had cajoled the head cook to spare. "Too bad Sam's not here. He made the best meals."

Grinning as she spelled a pack to be "bottomless" and then stowed the ingredients, Holly said, "I assure you, I have _much_ more experience with ingredients than Sam does. Plus, I make a mean meatloaf, and with these eggs under preservation charms, I know over seven different ways they can be done."

They then headed to the throne room, requesting an audience with the King, who was only too glad to welcome them. They decided as a whole to retire into a different room with more than one grand but uncomfortable chair. As Théoden settled down at the head of the table, looking happy to be surrounded by his living family. Aragorn chanced a glimpse at Holly, whose face was decidedly blank as she conjured a plump, squishy looking chair made of red cloth for herself before launching into the specifics of the treaty between Rohan and Gondor.

For what felt like the hundredth time, Aragorn dwelt upon Holly's many peculiarities. Her experience with cooking and cleaning for one. In what scenario would a Maia have to do chores such as those? Her mannerisms. Then at times, her plain outlandishness. What could it be?

He grew even more thoughtful as he watched Holly wrangle out a stronger alliance for Gondor from Rohan, playing up the dúnadan's role in finding Éomer and rescuing Éowyn, somehow even managing to include him in the discussion. Such deft political maneuvering for one who claimed to not have meddled in such things since the sundering of the elves. Once again, Aragorn wondered about the mystery that was Holly's past.

Finally, they said farewell to the royals, Aragorn was so immersed in rumination that he almost missed how Éowyn was eyeing him a little wistfully. Another reason to head for Gondor as soon as possible.

As he settled Merry – the lighter of two hobbits – on his horse, Aragorn doubts that Holly had been asleep during all of the six millenia she'd disappeared grew stronger.

* * *

**Legolas**

* * *

The elven prince had prided himself on being able to tolerate high levels of pain, but that was before he had an extra, much larger pair of limbs to injure – and endure the pain of once they were injured. He suppressed another wince when a bloody wing inadvertently scraped against the rock wall. Legolas had learnt to work through pain, but that didn't make the experience any more pleasant.

He could almost swear on Elbereth that the miserable creature was doing this on purpose. In the abysses of his mind, he knew that Frodo showing Gollum mercy was the right thing to do. But if Lady Galadriel were to look into his heart right then, he seriously doubted that his heart of hearts would reflect that same knowledge. Legolas grimaced as the decrepit former Ringbearer led them through another narrow crevice, indirectly forcing him to hunch and curl his wings, causing them to feel like they were on fire.

Had he been any less disciplined, Legolas would have breathed a sigh of relief as soon as they stepped into a relatively large cavity in the caves, with room enough to stretch his aching wings. If not to just keep them in the least painful position possible, which he found difficult, as they stung with every movement he made.

"Legolas?" Frodo's voice broke through the elf's pain.

Legolas gave himself a mental shake; he shouldn't dwell on pain when he had two hobbits to protect from a slippery traitor that lay in wait. Or rather, leading the way as it was, which made the matter doubly difficult.

"Yes, Frodo?"

Sunken but earnest blue eyes stared up at the elf. "You should eat something, and then maybe try to rest. I never thought I'd say this, but you look tired."

It amused Legolas to hear those words spoken from a face that looked nearly as tired as he felt.

"In that manner we are birds of a feather, I believe." Legolas tried keep his voice stern in order to cover up his rather inappropriate amusement.

Nevertheless, Frodo seemed to catch onto Legolas' amusement and attempted to further lighten the mood. "And here I was, thinking it was impossible for elves to tire."

Legolas let out a laugh that came out breathier than he would have liked to admit. "Believe me when I say it is quite possible for us elves to tire. Especially in the company of two wayward hobbits." He teased.

Making an offended face, Frodo said in a mock-injured voice, "I'll have you know, Legolas, that we're right on our way onto completing our task."

Though he knew it was in jest, Frodo's comment sobered Legolas. As he belatedly swept his weary eyes over the cavern, the elf noted it seemed safe and clear enough; there would be enough room to fight, if ambushed.

It seemed that Frodo had realized Legolas' change in focus because he repeated, "We all could really use the rest. _All _of us."

Legolas attempted a smile. "Shall we inform Gollum that we are stopping for the night, then?"

Frodo nodded; it was an unspoken rule that all communication, nay, _interaction_ with Gollum be done through Frodo. After all, the Ringbearer was the only one who could control Gollum without being forced to resort on brute force.

As Frodo relayed to Gollum their plans for stopping for the night, the creature nodded. "Sméagol thinks it's a good idea to rest too, Sméagol does. Master should rest up while he can."

Legolas held back a frown, and it was not because of the painstaking care it took to fold his wings. Something about that seemingly innocent statement did not sit right with him.

Come to think of it, these caves felt familiar to Legolas, and the elf-prince had never in all his centuries set foot in Mordor. He tried to put a finger on the familiarity. Caves… No, not the caves themselves, but there was still a feeling that reminded him of the woods he hailed from. Except the feeling here was darker. Much darker, and more ominous.

Against his better judgment, Legolas banished that line of thought and sat down, holding back a wince as his movements jostled the many weapons that he no longer carried on his back on account of his injured wings. It had been difficult to carry them on his winged back even without the injuries in the first place.

Ready to take the watch all through the night if need be – how could they not, with Gollum within their party? – Legolas was taken aback when Sam stood before him and all but demanded, "I'll take first watch, if you please, Master Elf." His no-nonsense tone took Legolas a bit by surprise.

What was Sam talking about? He was loyal to Frodo to almost a fault, and that loyalty stirred enough courage and a willingness to do anything for the Ringbearer…but loyalty could only go so far. Loyalty would not enable Sam to know what signs to look for if their party was to be ambushed, or give him fighting abilities he had not previously had.

When Legolas opened his mouth to decline as gently as possible, Sam intercepted, "Out of all of us, I'm the least exhausted. You're no good to us tired if it comes down to battle, and you're already injured. I'll wake you if I so much as _imagine _something's off, so I'll thank you to rest for the first watch."

Too tired to come up with sufficient points that would derail Sam of his resolve, Legolas resigned himself to settling his body into the least painful position possible. Weary as he was now, it was true that he would be of little use but of cosmetic intimidation if they were to encounter a major altercation.

When he had told Niphredil – a pang that shot through his heart at the mere thought of the name – that elves had no need for sleep, he had not been intentionally misleading, but that had not been entirely truthful. When elves needed to recuperate, rest was needed. Granted, they would rest with their eyes open, which Niphredil would have found – what was the word – creepy? – as compared to other races, but he had caught her dozing off with her eyes wide open as well…

Legolas gave a melancholy smile at the memory, instead of nipping the thought off at the bud as he was more often wont to do these days.

Had he changed? Gandalf seemed to think he had. He almost laughed when he remembered the snide mannish comment he had thrown in his father's face. In this case, the apple had not fallen far from tree at all. After all, it was after his mother's death that his father had grown simultaneously cold and overprotective.

In his case, it seemed that the death of Niphredil had caused him to be protective of the hobbits. He unwillingly relaxed his body and drifted off to sleep, his eyes wide open.

* * *

**Frodo**

* * *

He awoke to deft hands shaking him awake, eyes practically crusted together.

"Frodo. Come, it is time to move once more." Legolas' soft voice coaxed.

Feeling groggier than he had possibly ever been in his life, Frodo rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Nn…okay…okay. I'm awake." He didn't quite know whether he was saying those words to reassure Legolas or himself. The elf looked nominally less tired than he had the day before, however. And his expression had lost a bit of the disturbing focus that he had started to carry after Holly's death. "How are your wounds, Legolas?"

"Better than yesterday." Rummaging through Holly's pack that mysteriously held more than it should, Legolas offered, "Lembas bread?"

Honestly, Frodo was a bit tired of eating the elvish bread – hobbits were used to variety – but he nodded and took the rations. "Sam? Sméagol?" He called out.

The two had been glaring at each other, ever since Sméagol had declared that he'd become their guide. Frodo closed his eyes, wishing that they would set their differences aside, at least until they destroyed the _precious…_

His eyes snapped open, startled out of his thoughts, shocked that he had actually referred to the Ring that way. Fighting off feelings of disgust and panic, Frodo hastened to focus on the taste and texture of the Lembas bread he was chewing on. He could only afford to think of one thing at a time, now. The first thing was how to get through these caves. Sméagol assured him their group was making good time, but Frodo still wished they had a map. He trusted Sméagol to a certain extent, but that didn't mean the former Ringbearer was quite in his right mind. But he was still fairly hopeful that they would get into Mordor in one piece.

It would be a few days later that Frodo's hope would plummet.

* * *

A/N: Extra long chapter in compensation?


End file.
